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YANKEE COURTSHIP 




MINNIE MYRTLE 



THE 



MYRTLE WREATH, 



OR 



STRAY LEAVES RECALLED. 



Il WmxK itgrat. 




NEW YORK: 
CHARLES SCRIBNER, 145 NASSAU ST. 



:>A' 






Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1854, by 

CHARL ES SCRIBNER, 

Jn the Clerk's OfficeoTtlTe'^trict Court of the United States for the 
Southern District of New York. 



tobitt's COMBINATION-TYPB, 
181 William St 



JRAIQHKAD, PRINTER, 

53 VE8ST BTREBT. H. J 



/iLi 






TO 

HENRY J. RAYMOND, 

Editor JY. Y. Daily Times, 

HER CORDIAL AND GENEROUS FRIEND, 

ST I) e E® r € a t ij , 

WHICH HIS APPROBATION FIRST ENCOURAGED HER TO TWINE, 

IS KSSPECTFULLT AND GRATEFULLY DEDICATED 

BY 

The Author. 



CONTENTS 



A Word to my Readers . 


7 


My Children . . . ... 


11 


The Picture with Two Faces 


16 


Thanksgiving in the Great Emporium . 


21 


Neighbors ..... 


27 


Cincinnati in March" . . . . 


31 


To an Infant Playing with a Sunbeam . 


34 


A Word about Music . . . * 


. 36 


Love and Money . . . , . ^ . 


38 


Soug of the Cossack . . . . . 


52 



IV. CONTENT 

The Unwelcome Baby 

A Steamboat on the Ohio 

An Incident by the Way . 

My Mother 

Terms of Reproach 

A Yankee Courtship 

The Breaking Heart 

A Word for Woman 

Christmas is Coming 

Solitary Musings upon Solitude 

My Garden Flowers 

Two Mothers — the False and the True 

Literary Women . 

A Brother's Love and Gratitude 

A Little Child Shall Teach Them 

The Heart 

Introductions 

First Impressions upon the Mississippi 

The Story a Thousand Times Told— Yet 

A Chapter on Love 

Country Cousins . 

Our Baby . . . - 

The Clearing 

A Husband's Soliloquy . 

Dress, Houses, and Housework . 



Always New 



CONTENTS. 

The True Hero . 

A Hint to Housekeepers .... 

Eeturn to My Country, Translated from the Freucli of 
Beranger ..... 

Ellen S , Or Marrying for a Homo 

Some Wicked Thoughts I had in Church 

Thanksgiving . . 

Thoughts at the Croton Fountains 

She is a Fashionable Woman, and ought not to be Mar 

Thoughts on the Prairie in Spring 

The Family Room . . . , 

One of Life's Contrasts .... 

The Healing 

Strange Things which I have Seen and Heard • 

Thrilling Incident and Visit to an Artist's Studio 

Poor Little Robert 

A Solitary Ride on the Prairie . 

What's in a Name 

My Own Little Corner 

Another Reverie in a Lone Corner 

A Woman's Toil . 

Bill and Little Amy 

The Bachelor's Bedroom 



Kitty Grey — Or, I Have Beauty Enough 
Through the World 

The Little Match Girl 



to Carry Me 



V 

169 
173 

176 

181 

201 

206 

209 

212 

216 

220 

228 

234 

236 

239 

243 

249 

258 

264 

267 

272 

277 

283 

287 
297 



VI. CONTENT 


5 . 






A July Night on The Upper Mississippi . .* . 303 


A Hint to the Lords of Creation . 






307 


The Little Boy with Faggots 






312 


Our Yalley 






320 


Amelia • . . . 






344 


The Winter Boquet 






354 


Conversation as an Art . 






357 


Is She Happy .... 






3C4 


Adventures of a Snowflake 






369 



|i M0riJ to mg f\ti\)jm. 



WHAT excuse shall I make in behalf of my 
"scattered leaves," for gathering together and 
twining themselves into a " Wreath," and aspiring to a 
place among the " Floras" and " Grandifloras," with 
which the gardens of literature are just now teeming? 
Many fears I have that it will be thrown into the shade 
by the " leaves" and " fragrant blossoms" in the midst 
of which it has sprujig up, and that, although it should 
prove an evergreen, it will scarcely be thought worthy 
to occupy the back ground among the bright garlands 
which thought and fancy are weaving and presenting in 
such beautiful relief to our view. 

(7) 



8 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

The author had nothing else to do, and so she wrote, 
and when she had gone but a httle way in this pleasant 
path, there came to her from many hearts which she 
knew not, the voice of gratitude for some drop of balm 
which fell upon a wounded spirit, or a word of merri- 
ment which charmed dull care away, and lightened the 
leaden wing of sorrow. It was a holy mission — and 
she went on scattering more widely the flowers she had 
culled, hoping and earnestly praying, they might do 
good wherever they fell. 

Imagination and fancy have had little to do with 
these sketches — her motto is Truth. Wherever a story 
or incident is related, it is given as it actually occurred, 
and she has trespassed a little upon an untried path, in 
thinking it possible and proper to write true love 
stories ! 

It has ever been the custom for a portion of the 
Christian community to condemn all fiction as perni- 
cious, while nothing has been supplied in its place ; and 
though these condemnations have been uttered for cen- 
turies, fiction of every kind has been multiplying a 
thousand-fold, and the libraries of even Christian people 
are filling with " popular novels." And it will conti- 
nue so to be till truth is presented in a more pleasing 
garb, and made more attractive in the eyes of the 
young. They resort to novels for sympathy, to learn 
the history of hearts like their own, for it is a lamenta- 



A WOrvD TO MY READERS. 9 

ble truth that Biographies represent human beings so 
different from any thing we actually see in this world, 
that there is very little encouragement to aim "to be 
hke unto them." 

It is thought sufficient, in religious Biographies espe- 
cially, to give a history of the intellect. The heart is 
treated as if it were an " accursed thing." How many 
times have I heard young people exclaim, that they had 
searched the lives of eminent men and women in vain, 
to find that they ever had thoughts and feelings like 
their own. Their domestic history is a sealed book. 
What we wish most to know — the every- day life of 
those with whose public acts we are familiar — is scarce- 
ly alluded to. If a great man had affections and heart 
joys and sorrows, it is not thought proper to speak of 
it. It is merely recorded that " he w^as married at such 
an age, to an estimable woman, with whom he lived 
so many years, and who died leaving him so many chil- 
dren !" 

It would be of no great use to cry hush to a volcano, 
and it is quite as futile to bid the hearts of children 
cease to beat quick and warm — for each other ! They 
cannot be content with books which only endeavor to 
expand the mind and teach the religion of the soul. 
While they are human they must have human sympa- 
thy, and in the book which God Himself has written, 

there is no such silence concerning the " daily walk and 
I* 



10 THE MYKTLE WREATH. 

.conversation of the persons whose history it gives, ic 
the most intimate relationships of life. 

If my little book shall do something towards proving 
that the truth may be written about the heart as well 
as the head, and that love may be talked about in prose 
as well as in poetry, it will have accomplished its 
mission. 

The readers of the " New York Daily Times," " The 
Independent," " The Troy Post," and " The National 
Era," will recognise many of the sketches. Most of the 
poems have appeared in several different Journals, over 
different signatures, and the critics will doubtless find an 
abundance of faults in them all. It will not be amiss, 
perhaps, to say, that I have not written to instruct the 
wise, and have no ambition to write learnedly. I have 
hoped to impress the heart, and to amuse, believing this 
to be emphatically " woman's mission." Yet I have not 
on this account thought it of little consequence how I 
wrote. I have written as well as I knew how I 

To know that the " Myrtle Wreath" is welcome to 
" hearts and homes," will sufficiently gladden her who 
has twined it — and may it do no evil if it should do no 
good, is the prayer of her who sends it forth with many 
fears and tremblings. 



Ps «Pte. 



AN old lady sat in the arm-chair by the fire with a 
full quilled cap border around her withered but 
very pleasant and motherly-looking face, a three cor- 
nered blue 'kerchief pinned neatly over her shoulders, 
and a wide old-fashioned full-gathered apron tied round 
her waist, with a white tape string, and the Bible on 
lier knee. 

I had been out making calls, and when I entered the 
room, I said, " I have seen a great number of my chil- 
dren to-day, aunt Eachael ; almost everywhere I went 
I found one or more, and—-" 

(II) 



12 THE MYRTLE AVREATH. 

" Your children !" exclaimed the astonished good 
woman, " Your children, I did not know you had any 
children," and she looked as if she thought I ought to 
be blushing with shame, instead of looking very proud 
and gratified. 

" Why, Aunt Eachael, did I never tell you about ray 
children, such a troop of them as I have, too — of all 
ages and sizes, and conditions — why, I thought you 
knew all about it." 

Never did I see a placid countenance so transformed. 
She looked perfectly aghast, as she took her steel- 
bowed spectacles from her nose, and laid them upon 
the great book, while her aged hand trembled like an 
aspen. 

I pitied her, indeed I did, but I was wicked enough 
to assume an air of humility as I said, " Oh, but Aunt 
Eachael, it is all about now, so I might as well confess 
it openly — and surely you will not condemn me before 
you hear my story." 

" Children, and all about — what do you mean ? tell 
me, and why have I not known it before ?" 

'■'■ you know we do not want to trouble you with 
all the foolish things that are done in the w^orld. You 
would have no rest day or night — and to know that I 
had become the ' town's talk,' why it would have been 
the death of you." 

Here I smiled, and the good old lady beo-an to sus- 



MY CHILDREN. 13 

pect I was talking nonsense (no new thing for me,) and 
her face assumed its usual complacency, though she 
was still in darkness concerning my strange announce- 
ment. 

" But they are black, Aunt Eachael, black as ink — 
and some people say they are shocking story tellers — 
that they never know when to believe them. Yet I 
have always taught them to tell the truth, and am very 
sure they always do." 

" Oh yes," said the good lady, " I can well imagine 
if they are at all like you, how they tell the truth, just 
as you have been telling it to me this morning." 

"Indeed, have I told you anything but the truth? — 
Now I am sure there is not a bit of fiction about it." 

" No, but you give it such a flourish and cover it with 
such a gloss, that it would be difficult distinguishing it 
from its coloring." 

" And this is just what the Rhetoric tells us to do — 
and surely the Rhetoric must know ; when we talk, we 
colour with the tones of our voice and the light of our 
eyes, and the change of our countenances ; that is, we 
give expression to what would otherwise be intolerably 
stupid — and when we write, we must color with the 
tones and changes of language, or our thoughts, though 
ever so good, would be intolerably prosy, and nobody 
would read them at all, and what is the use of writing, 
what nobody will read V" 



14 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

" well, you know I do not understand about these 
things," said my good Aunt Rachael, who is not a good 
judge at all of any thing I may do, because to her eyes 
it always wears the hue of right. 

But I was quite amused with the criticisms upon my 
children from those who had no idea they bore any re- 
lationship to me. 

They are all christened M. M., so by M. M. we will 
call them. 

" She is too severe," said one — " and then she has no 
right to go about prying into people's affairs, learning 
all their secrets and publishing them — it is shameful. I 
wonder if she would like to have somebody do the same 
by her." 

And now I will tell you just how it was about one 
true story I told. Those whom it really concerned, 
never troubled themselves about it. But two others of 
whom I never heard, or thought, or dreamed, saw fit 
to appropriate it to themselves, and as they were in a 
grand hotel, and in a very public place, with many eyes 
upon them, it was whispered all about that the coat 
must have been made for them, and so they and all 
their friends came near getting up a crusade to rescue 
the pen from hands which so profaned it ! Truth is 
not only stranger-than fiction, but more sure to cut. 

This is its mission — to " pierce like a two-edged 



MY CHILDREN. 15 

sword," but I cannot be to blame if it hew in pieces 
those at whom I never aimed even the point. 

Another said " she did not hke the style, it was full 
of Yankeeisms — she must be a genuine Yankee ; -her 
children all had the twang !" 

Now I thought it was long ago settled that " Yan- 
kees were as good as any body if they only behaved 
^8 well," and that their isms were neither more 
oblique, nor acute, oblong nor obtuse than other peo- 
ple's isms, but it seems it is still a matter " open to dis- 
cussion." But this accusation did not trouble me, as it 
would if they had said, " she is attempting to conceal- 
her nativity by putting on New York airs." So I con- 
soled myself with the thought " that I had not come to 
this." 

But some people said they were nice children and did 
credit to their bringing up, and I concluded it was best 
to go on my own way, improving if I could by any kind 
hints I might receive, but copying nobody's else pat- 
terns ; and original designs, even for children, might 
atone for the want of beauty and perfection. 

And Aunt Eachael said, " Yes, yes I" 



%\t |irto toiti] to ims. 



A REVERIE IN ONE OF THE SALOONS OF SARATOGA. 



^»"]\T0, oh, no" — the voice was soft, and the tones full 
±\ of love ; but the answer was harsh, and I heard 
a quick and heavy step upon the floor as of one who was 
resolved to bid defiance to all gentle persuasion. Then 
again the voice grew more earnest. " 0, no, you musn't 
go to-night — 0, stay with me'to-night." But the an- 
swer was still more resolved, and I heard an oath, as he 
said, " he would not be chained by a woman," and 

ao"ain the heavy footsteps stride toward the door. 

(16) 



THE PICTURE WITH TWO FACES. ' 17 

The room was next to mine, and I knew was occupied 
by a husband and wife. I had often seen them going in 
and out, and noticed the expression of concealed anxiety 
and sufiering which a practiced eye may still detect on 
a heroic woman's countenance. On his face I had read 
selfishness, sensuality, and ungoverned passions, and I 
knew there must be misery in that little room, though 
wealth and luxury, and refinement spread a veil over it 
to common eyes. 

My ear was quickened by this knowledge, and I lis- 
tened for the sequel of what I knew to be the attempt 
of an injured, but still true and loving wife, to dissuade 
her husband from some midnight revel ; and again she 
pleaded, " My dear, do not go — 'tis late, and all will 
know that you go forth at this hour to some unhallowed 
resort. You must not go." It was still for a moment, 
and then I heard a bound, as if neither bars nor bolts 
should keep him from going when and where he pleased. 
But the light step of love was quicker, and I heard the 
key turned as she said, " You must not, must not" — 
and ! the agony of those gentle tones. 

There was a struggle — a faint scream, and she fell. 
In a moment more the key again turned, the door was 
thrown open, and muflSed steps stole down the staircase, 
to which I listened in breathless silence, till their echo 
died away in the street. 

Then the stifled sobs fell on my ear — a moan that told 



18 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

me a heart was breaking. '' Shall I- go to her ?" " No," 
said a voice within, " He is her husband — it is one of 
those secret griefs which proud woman never reveals, 
and is happier in feeling that no one ever knows." 

I could not sleep, and opened the casement to look 
out upon the garden, and far away over the quiet village, 
the groves and winding paths bathed in the moonlight, 
and thought, 0, that man should mar such loveliness ! 
There were no sounds or signs of life. "Where were 
the revellers ? Where, in a little village, could be con- 
cealed the dark places of iniquity, the poisoned cup 
an(J the maddening game ? And I thought how many 
hearts are breaking ! How many pillows are wet with 
the tears of anguish, and bosoms heaving with the sigh 
of grief, of thoughts uttered, but in the prayer, " My 
father forgive them, and give me strength to endure !" 

A sHght sound caught my ear, I saw the curtain put 
back by a delicate hand, and a pale face upon which the 
moonbeams fell, looked forth, and a voice exclaimed 
" How long, 0, how long !" I watched till nearly 
morning, and still she moved not ; and I again sought 
rest, ere hum of voices and the tramp of feet should ban- 
ish sleep from every eyelid. 

When I awoke there were again voices; these soft 
tones were softer, and the harsh answers were harsher 
still ; but they soon ceased, and the restless slumbers of 
the debauchee alone disturbed the stillness. The pale 



THE PICTURE WITH TWO FACES. 19 

hand stil rested on the window-sill, w^hen the mornincc 
light streamed in ; and when the bell summoned all to 
awake, I heard again that loving voice whispering in the 
ears of the sleeper, to arouse him from the stupidity 
which wine and revelry had produced. Muttered curses 
were thrown back upon her bleeding heart, but the 
affectionate appeals continued till he fully understood 
their import, when he arose and moved about in sullen 
silence at his morning toilet. 

I descended to the parlor, and from my quiet nool; 
observed that " happy couple" when they entered, the 
envied of all eyes. His are drawing room smiles, and 
so well do they become him, that ordinary observers 
would never imagine that the saloon was the only place 
in which he ever wore them. But the beautiful and 
gentle creature by his side- clings trustfully to his arm, 
and looks up lovingly to his face. It is not strange 
they believe her happy ! and indeed she is. She loves 
with a true woman's devotion—'' with all his fauFts she 
loves him still." But the worm, that insidious worm 
Neglect, is gnawing there, and the life-blood will soon 
be drained from that true heart. 

I thought of those words, so true and beautiful, " Are 
there no martyrs of whom the world never hears ?" 
" Pass you never, in your daily walks, slight forms with 
calm brows and mild eyes, whose whole life has been 
one prolonged self struggle ?" " Lip and cheek, and 



20 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

brow, tell they you no tales of the spirit's unrest ?" Ah, 
yes, there is a whole army of martyr-women, more he- 
roic than any victor on the battle-field, of whom the 
world never hears or knows, or dreams. But there is 
an eye that pities, and an arm to save, and how, 
brightly will these crushed and broken spirits shine in 
the ransomed hosts above ! 



iljanlisglljmg m % ^uat iniprm 



THANKSGIVING-DAY has a pleasant sound, 
wherever it may fall on the ear ; but in the city it 
cannot be so marked or so welcome, as in New Eng- 
land, for here festivities are common occurrences, and 
feasting is an every-day affair. At the " Astor" and 
the " Irving," roast turkey and oyster sauce, plum pud- 
ding and dyspepsia, are dispensed every day. Every 
day in the three- hundred and sixty-five is Hke every 
other. The bill of fare never varies. 

Here there is no best room open only on " high days, 

holydays, Christmas and Thanksgiving;" here there can 

(21) 



22 THE MYRTLE WREATH . 

be.no family gatherings — no grey-haired sire to relate 
around the fireside the sports of his youth — no aged 
matron to renew with remembrances the frolics of 
childhood. 

Nowhere do associations seems to cluster so thickly 
as in the old-fashioned New England farm-house/where 
all around — every mountain, rock and tree — is hung 
with legends of by-gone days. 

The Grandfather bought the '' tract " of the Indians, 
and felled the trees with his own strong arm. He built 
the hut which first sheltered him, and ploughed and 
planted, and reaped and gathered in, till riches crowned 
his labors, and houses and barns and granaries gave 
evidence of his prosperity. 

Sons and daughters grew up around him — and now, 
children and children's children, gather at every return- 
ing festival to hear his " oft-told tales," which " ne'er 
grow old." He heard the guns of the Eevolution — how 
long a time it seems to the litde prattler on his knee 
since " Grandpa was a little boy." He twines his tiny 
fingers in the long grey locks, and " wonders if they 
were ever brown and curly hke his own !" 

Thanksgiving-day is the only one in all the year when 
the whole house is^ warmed and lighted for festivity — 
and the interest of the occasion is greatly heightened by 
the fact, that all, from the oldest to the youngest, have 
had a " finger in the pie " of preparation ! 



THANKSGIVING IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS. 23 

On Monday morning the cocks were strutting about 
the barn-yard, and the hens were crackling without a 
presentiment of their doom, and in the evening they are 
all strung by their " head's antipodes " in the chimney 
corner. A bright fire crackles on the hearth, and the 
plucking and " singeing " go on right merrily. The 
little folks are allowed to sit up to pick chickens^ and the 
next day the mortar pestle pounder and the pastry 
roller resound through all the borders, and the chop- 
ping, mincing and mixing and stirring employ all hands. 

On Wednesday evening the pantry shelves display 
rows of pies of every name and savory taste, and pans 
of cakes, and dough-nuts. " Master Gobble-gobble " 
has parted with his spurs and taken to the spit ; Mrs. 
Goose is all equipped for the steamer, and the ducks 
are in their native element without the power of appre- 
ciating it ! 

The snow-storm and the cider-press have not been 
forgotten, and both used to he absolutely necessary to a 
New England Thanksgiving; Uncles, aunts and cou- 
sins must be announced by merry bells, and the day 
could not end quite satisfactorily without a sleigh-rido 
in the evening. 

Cider, it was thought, promoted digestion — at least it 
promoted sociability, and there is no disputing that it 
was delicious, and I have never been convinced that it 
has not all these quaUties still ! Though in the spirit 



''^4 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

of Paul and the Maine Law, if it make my brothers to 
offend, I will drink no cider, even at the risk of undi- 
gested turkey and silent sociables ! 

But there is nothing else that need be dispensed with 
— and I would that greater honors and greater prepar- 
ations awaited the hallowed day, rather than its glories 
should fade as time wears on. I only wish that every 
household would invest it with some peculiar charm, so 
that children might welcome it and rejoice at its com- 
ing, and so that their memories might cling to it, wher- 
ever they should wander, for the heart is not only made - 
glad, but better, by everything that links it to home. 

Parents, who provide for their childen no home, none 
of those loving ties and sweet remembrances, which 
cluster around " the spot where we were born," or 
where we spent the days of childhood and youth, send 
them forth into the world like a ship on the ocean, with- 
out anchor or cable. The helm is not alone sufficient 
in the hour of danger; there must be something to fall 
back upon — a strong chain to secure the tempest-tossed 
bark to the rock, or it will certainly go down in the 
darkness. 

How surely the heart expands with kindly charities 
on Thanksgiving day ! How many poor are remem- 
bered, how many hungry fed, how many naked clothed 
— for it is no more true that " misery loves company " 
than that happiness likes to diffuse itself Who could 



THANKSGIVING IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS. 25 

enjoy the festal board knowing that those next door to 
Ijitn were starving. Every heart that Ufts itself in grat- 
itude must be warmed and made generous, and it is a 
pleasant thought when the bells are pealing, that the 
multitudes are giving up with their thank offerings, be- 
cause the Lord hath blessed and prospered them. " It 
is good to give thanks unto the Lord." 

But though I remained in the city for my sermon, I 
went out of it for my dinner ; not with the hope of ob- 
taining anything better than the city afforded as a " feast 
of fat things," but to enjoy a little more of the genuine 
spirit of the season. I could not be at home, but 
wanted to be reminded of it, so assented most gladly to 
the invitation to sit at the board where many generations 
were to gather, from the grey-haired man of seventy to 
the baby, the tin}^ baby in its mother's arms. 

We called Baby the sunbeam — little joyous creature 
that he was, so delighted with the rattle of other peo- 
ple's knives and forks, and the sight of all the good 
things of which he could not partake — so delighted with 
the happy faces all about him, that his own was like 
the dimpUng pool reflecting the brightness of the 
morning. 

How pleasant was it to see th(» old and the young, 

kindred of widely scattered houses, in a circling row; 

and then we pictured to ourselves all the homes we 
2 



26 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

knew, with their gatherings. Ah, and the broken hnks 
too, which had filled some fond hearts with mourning. 

According to the estabhshed rule, we ate as much as 
ice could, and then made merry with the children, as a 
help to digestion. We plaj^ed ' bli7id mail's hiiff^ and 
* hunt the squirrel,' ' fox and geese,' and ' button, but- 
ton, make a rise,' and then, forgive us shades of our 
Fathers ! we danced to music of our owm making. 
The old lady of ninety was not less nimble than her 
partner, the little boy of six, and all were equally ear- 
nest in the business of fun and frolic. 

Many of the little ones were too little to understand 
the meaning of Thanksgiving, but they were in no dan- 
ger of misapprehending its privileges ; and the notable 
fact, deduced from observation, that father and mother 
did not frolic quite so gaily on any other day in the 
year, only prepared them to welcome the next more 
gladly. 

Blessings on their happy hearts ! and my prayer is, 
chat I may never be obliged to spend Thanksgiving 
where little children are not. 



I^Hg^ta, 



• • "lYfO indeed, we are not going to live on gossiping 

_L 1 terms with those around us. Our neighbors 

are not to know all about our affairs," exclaimed an 

aristocratic genteel family from the city, as they settled 

in a remote country village. " In the city, people do not 

know even those who live next door to them," — to be 

sure ; therefore it is not genteel. But I have heard 

as arrant gossip between those who were obliged to 

cross Union Park or Washington Parade Ground, in 

order to meet, as I ever heard between those who only 

lifted the latch to the little wicket gate, and traversed 

(27) 



28 TH£ MYRTLE WREATH. 

the " garden patch," and entered the back door and 
seated themselves by the fire sans ceremonie. 

No, they were not going to be ill bred, and countri- 
fied, and have " neighbors" if they did live in a vil- 
lage. They happened to move into a neighborhood, 
where gossip had never entered — where the people 
were more than ordinarily kind and sympathizing, and 
yet inclined to "mind their own business;" so when 
the good wives had put on their best bibs and tuckers, 
and called on their new neighbors and pronounced 
them very pleasant, and found their calls were not re- 
turned, they quietly let them alone. 

Not many weeks had passed before sickness, the 
disregarder of all aristocratic distinctions, entered the 
domicil from which neighbors were excluded. The 
doctor's carriage was seen every day at the door, but 
it was no concern of theirs. They might not be wel- 
come if they proffered assistance or enquiry ; so they 
stayed away. The family watched all day by the 
couch of suffering, and the night brought them no rest, 
for there were none to take their place, and with 
motherly and sisterly sympathy, share their w^eariness, 
and help to bear their burthens. Then came Death, 
that stern leveller, and bruised their hearts and bowed 
their spirits, but to whom could they look for the balm 
which soothes, if it cannot heal ; for the hand which 



NEIGHBORS. 29 

kindly binds up the wound, if it cannot assuage all 
pain. 

Those who have ever lived m a country village, need 
not be told with what delicacy and alacrity all these 
offices are performed by neighbors, nor how much 
sweeter it is to depend on friendship than on menial 
service, in such an hour of affliction. Some mother or 
daughter softly enters and assumes all care, and attends 
to all arrangements, leaving those who are stricken, to 
the indulgence of their sorrows and to profitable reflec- 
tion ; and how often have I heard families in cities 
mourn, that for them there was no such solace — no 
such friendship. But those who prefer gentility to 
frank and cordial intercourse, should not lament their 
condition. 

Sickness and death teach many a lesson which no 
other teacher could impress on the heart ; and when 
our city friends had been humbled under the rod, they 
sought the sympathy which they had rejected, and cul- 
tivated the friendship which they had despised. They 
found they could live in friendly communion with those 
around them without descending to vulgar gossip, and 
that those who live in palaces, and dress gorgeously, 
are not the most sure to prove ministering angels at 
the couch of suffering, or the most ready to pour bnlm 



30 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

into the wounded heart. Henceforth they had neigh- 
bors in sickness and in health, and proved good 
country neighbors themselves. 



.Cindmiati m pard]^ 



SHE is rightly named the " Queen City of the West !" 
How majestically she sits on her chariot of hills, 
with her feet upon the water, and her head rising even 
to the clouds. How glorious must be her beauty when 
she puts on her emerald robes, and wreathes her brow 
wath summer garlands. Ah, yes, and she seems con- 
scious of her beauty. How she adorns herself with the 
gems of art. Palaces are growing up all around her, 
and gardens are smiling in all her borders. 

They are proud of their city, and proud of their coun- 
try, those who have seen the wilderness and the solitary 

(31) 



\ 



32 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

place made glad by their fostering care, nnd the desert 
rejoice and blossom as the rose ; and who is not ready 
to call it a just and honorable pride? I am beginning to 
feel the enthusiasm which seems to inspire all who come 
to " spy out this land of promise," and when I return, 
shall bring you such specimens of " purple clusters," 
of the " fig, the olive, and the pomegranate," as shall 
induce you to come out and take possession. 

I have been out into the forest and seen the giants 
of the wood. I have wandered over the hills and felt 
the " sadness which is sweet," in the silent grove. 

It is much nearer spring here than it is with you, and 
the grass is never so completely w inter-killed as in our 
native vales. Some days are already so sunny and 
bright as to tempt you to go forth and to linger, with 
only the blue Heavens for a canopy, and some tufted 
knoll for a resting-place. The shrill wind of Autumn 
is not the signal for the departure of all the birds, as it 
is in New-England, and the morning gladdens you with 
their cheerful song. This is the atmosphere in which 
the genius of Powers was first developed, and the Cin- 
cinnatians claim him for their own. He was born in 
Vermont, but he removed here so early, that he must be 
considered a plant of the soil. I have seen the first work 
of his hands, a plaster bust of a little girl, who is now 
a matron, but retaining a striking likeness to the sunny 
face of her childhood. I have seen the room in which 



CINCINNATI IN MARCH. 33 

he learned to read and spell. He had a humble origin, 
like most great men, and struggled with poverty, and 
climbed many a rude pathway ere he reached the pin- 
nacle of renown. After having looked upon the per- 
fection of his art in the slave girl of the East, I trace 
with peculiar interest the graceful curls and joyous ex- 
pression of the free child of the West, whom he moulded 
without a dream, perhaps, of the halo which was begin- 
ning even then to encircle his brow. 
2* 



®0 m Infant llaalng to!t^ a Snntom* 



How gracefully the shadows 

Go dancing on before, 
As thy tiny fingers frolic 

With the sunbeam on the floor. 

How bright thy eye is glowing, 
For it seems to thee a toy ; 

And thy little heart is throbbing 
With the extacy of joy. 

But 'tis not half so winning 

As thy smile of dalliance meek, 

And the wily laughing dimple 

That is nestling in thy cheek. 

(34) 



TO AN INFANT. 35 

Its form is but a phantom — 

The bright and beauteous thing, 
And changing, ever changing. 

Like a fairy on the wing. 

Like many a fickle beauty* 

It comes but to allure ; 
To dazzle and deceive thee, 

Although its glance be puro. 

Its brilliancy is fading. 

Even now it disappears ; 
And grief is in thy bosom, 

Thine eye is dim with tears. 

Thus life with beaming promise 

Bids hope illume the heart; 
But hopes like fickle sunbeama 

Decoy and then depart 



^ ®0rt atattt Pttsit. 



Cf T AM never merry when I hear sweet music," 
X though I cannot say with Shakspeare that I am 
never sad at any other time ! And I have been a thou- 
sand times thankful that my heart and soul, instead of 
my feet, were inevitably Hnked to sweet sounds. 

I often hear good sober people lamenting that secu- 
lar music should desecrate a church ; but to me there is 
never any secular music. I never danced to Jim Crow 
or Money Musk, and when these sweet melodies fall 
on my ear, my feet are not tempted to move from their 
places, and my soul only inchnes to " arise and spread 

its wings." 

(36) 



A WORD ABOUT MUSIC. 37 

Tunes may be associated with secular words, and 
with very improper times and seasons, but this cannot 
really affect the music. If, as John Wesley once said, 
" the Devil has all the good music," it cannot be in this 
case the fault of the Devil, but of those who have thus 
appropriated it. The thousand changes which are rung 
on C, D, E, F, G, A, B, make all the music we have, 
and it would be a curious mathematical question, which 
combination should be considered sacred and which 
secular. 

If a tune sung or played fast has no right or title to 
be called church music, some of the most grand and 
solemn pieces ever composed must be forthwith ban- 
ished from their appropriate sphere. It would be bet- 
ter for the good people, all, " old folks, young folks," to 
see well to their associations. The time may be quick 
or slow, and the arrangement simple or complex, the 
effect is always to bring " sadness stealing o'er my spi- 
rit," and often do I retire from the assembly, where all 
others seem to have been made light-hearted, to weep, I 
know not why, and yet there is a luxury in the tears I 
shed. 



f 0te u)s W^W* 



f ^"IVrEVER— I will never believe that he could do 
Xi wrong. Engaged to Milly Day ! He says he 
never thought of such a thing. He liked to talk with 
her — she amused him; but for a wife — no, he never 
thought of marrying her." Thus soliloquized a fair 
young creature who had been wooed and won with all 
the flatteries which false lips know so well how to speak. 
Not that she was unworthy a true and noble heart. 
Oh, no — she was indeed the fairest among the daugh- 
ters of the land — the belle of the village circle. 

(38) 



LOVE AND MONEY. 39 

The auburn hair did not " fall in ringlets upon her 
snowy neck,'' according to the fashion of all heroines, 
but was braided in rich tresses, and fastened with a 
simple comb ; her eyes were dark and expressive, and 
though she had never known sorrow, the shadow of 
thought rested upon her brow. She had a heart, a true 
woman's heart, worth all the treasures of the East ; but 
he who sought it had never learned its value, and cared 
not for all the wealth of love it was lavishing on him. 

Her father was rich ! Oh, if he could have known 
the years of untold misery which his houses and lands 
and stores of gold heaped upon his darling Lilly, he 
would have cast them from him, as more hateful than 
leprosy in his eyes. 

Albert G-., was a lawyer — a young man of * excellent 
habits' and * fine talents' — 'attentive to his business' and 
* honorable in his dealings,' and what the world calls 
prosperous. Just such a man as fathers choose for 
their daughters ! It never occurred to the man w^ho 
wasrnow old and loaded with riches and honors, and 
to inquire if he possessed a heart — if he had the qualifi- 
cations which make a woman happy. He had heard, to 
be sure, that he was a little given to gallantry. He 
had " waited upon Milly Day; but now, like a sensible 
man, he had chosen Lilly, his sensible and quiet Lilly, 
and no doubt would ' settle down' and live the life of a 
sober ' man of family.'" 



40 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

They were married — and gay were the festivities in 
those lighted halls when Lilly Morris became a bride. 
She had been a favorite with the old, because she was 
ever respectful and attentive, and they rejoiced that " she 
was going to do so well." Young men envied him who 
had won the prize, and young ladies hoped that when 
they " set their caps" they should be as fortunate. 

There she is, in her new home, moving about with 
quiet dignity. It is newly purchased and newly fur- 
nished, and she *" knows how to keep house." What 
is more beautiful than a new home, and where does a 
young heart beat more lightly ? She looks around, and 
says, " It is mine ; how happy shall I be in making it 
pleasant to him who is the light of my eyes." 

A year has passed away — the last of earthly happi- 
ness to her, though she knows it not. It is the same 
full, rounded form and elegant figure that moves in that 
fair mansion. The roses are not faded from her cheek, 
but the smile has lost its brightness. She listens for the 
footsteps which once gladdened her ears and made her 
heart beat gaily, and starts hke the timid fawn; and yet 
she can scarcely tell w^hy. He who once seemed so per- 
fect is changed, but so gradually as to be almost imper- 
ceptible even to a loving heart. 

Lilly is alone ; but her husband is not at the bilHard- 
room or gaming table ; no scene of revelry has enticed 
him. No, he is by her side; but no word of interest 



LOVE AND MONEY. 41 

or endearment falls upon her ear. Her fingers are busy 
with that delicate embroidery, which is soon to deck a 
tiny form, and how she longs to hold it up and ask him 
to admire. He would not speak unkindly, but he would 
not answer, and she has no courage to meet that cold 
silent look of inditlerence. 

"Days and weeks pass on — oh, how heavily they 
move; when will they wear away." These words she 
often sighed. Could she have looked into the far future 
and seen fifty years roll on with the same heavy burden, 
would not the thought have crushed her ? How little 
we know what the spirit can endure, as one sorrow 
after another is laid up on it. It bends, but it is long, 
very long in breaking. It is a slow -way of dying 1 

Lilly is a mother, and those hours of suffering and 
danger have been passed alone. The father has not 
entered her room ; a son is born, but he has not looked 
upon his face. Is it possible she lives, that fair, young 
creature, the victim of neglect ? 

There has been no failure in business, and no misfor- 
tune has come to them, yet they live like those whom 
poverty is oppressing. The house is dark, and cold, and 
comfortless. Is he a man or is he a fiend who comes 
in and goes out, as if he were deaf and dumb — as if he 
had not one human feeling or human sympathy. 

He is not a miser, and yet his stores are locked w^ith 
more than a miser's care and the food furnished for his 



42 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

family is coarser than the felon's meal. Not a word is 
he heard to utter from morn to night — from week to 
w^eek, unless it be the bitter words of hatred. 

But even this is not enough. Lilly has been suffi- 
ciently wretched, but she has never murmured, and her 
quiet christian deportment only seems to madden him. 
There can be no reason why he should remove her to 
a humble roof and humiliate her in the eyes of the world, 
and yet he has resolved to do it. 

Enter that dark low cottage; it is comfortless, the 
walls are bare and the furniture ruder than that of the 
meanest peasant. She who dwells w'ithin is changed 
since we last saw her — how meagre, pale, and spiritless ! 
Children are playing about ; can they be hers ? They 
look like the children of poverty. Sorrow has paralyzed 
the mother. She seems not to care whether they be tidy, 
she is not provided with the means of making them 
comfortable. 

She is deserted ; the husband of her love, he who 
promised to cherish her through evil and through good 
report, never crosses the threshold. All the weary days 
and nights she is alone, and is the object of the world's 
pity. Ah, this is the bitterest cup of all. "Would that 
she could have borne her sorrows unpitied and un- 
known. But no word that could relieve her burdened 
heart escapes her lips. Her dignity repels the gossiping, 
and the most inquisitive would not dare to pry into the 



LOVE AND MONEY 43 

secrets of INIrs. Morris' heart or household. No friend 
shares her confidence, and strange as it may sound, she 
has no enemies. They talk and pity, but they do not 

condemn. 

Where is the husband and father ? Attending scru- 
pulously to business, and prospering as the world 
counts prosperity. Can that be the once gay and gal- 
lant Albert G , with slouched hat and disordered 

dress, chewing, and smoking and swearing, and spit 
tin^^, and drinking ! Yes, b.^t the life is not congenial 
to his taste; he seeks excitement to drown misery, and 
at length wearies of it. 

Years have passed, and the husband and wife have 
not met. She has performed her daily routine of busi- 
ness, and, can we beheve it, her heart has yearned for 
him who has spurned her. 

And what has influenced him again to seek her, and 
grant her a husband's presence and protection ? He is 
not changed, he does not come to her with words of 
penitence, nor does his countenance kindle with a single 
beam of returning affection. Just as coldly and silently 
he moves about, without consulting her wishes, or 
deigning to give a word of explanation. She sees the 
preparations for a removal, but knows not why, and 
dares not ask whither she is to go. 

Silently and passively she performs what is required, 
and finds at length, that a brighter day is dawning. 



44. THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

Lilly is again installed in her bridal home, and the 
world says, " Now she will be happy." The roses have 
indeed returned to her cheek, and the light to her eyes. 
She is grateful to be shadowed from the rude gaze, and 
strives to seem blithe of heart. But there is no bright- 
ness within her home. A life without love ; oh, is it not 
sufficiently desolate ? But a w'edded life, without the 
sunshine of affection, a home upon which no sunshine 
ever falls, a fireside circle around which the demons of 
distrust and hatred linger, oh, what is there in all the 
world branded with the name of misery, to be compared 
to this ? To awake from a dream of bliss like that on 
which the young and trusting heart has dwelt — the ob- 
ject of devotion — and find the bosom on which she had 
hoped to repose, and sweetly rest from all the cares of 
life, repulse her, and to meet glances that send the life 
blood from her heart, and him to whom she had looked 
for elevation and sympathy in every noble sentiment, a 
grovelling mercenar}''. 

At length there is a light, even in that dark place. 
A daughter. The birth of a son in the Queen's house- 
hold could scarcely cause more rejoicing. And now, 
indeed, there is a little brightness. The father's heart 
is softened. The little creature has inherited her mo- 
ther's beauty, with more delicate grace and loveliness. 
But she is more shrinking and sensitive, and seems to 



LOVE AND MONEY. 45 

understand before she speaks, that the bhght and mil- 
dew are upon their home. 

How fondly the mother hoped that this little sun- 
beam would dispel the darkness; that warmth and 
gladness would now fall upon her heart, and that during 
the remainder of her weary pilgrimage she should be 
relieved from her heavy burden. 

But though the father seemed to rejoice at the advent 
of this new bond of affection, and was- for a little time 
changed, he soon relapsed into the sullen gloom which 
had become as second nature to him, and never more 
did hope, or light, or gladness, dawn for the wretched 
wife. 

Why has so much misery centered in that household ? 
If love did not exist in the beginning, why could it not 
grow ? I must confess to the hum-drum sentiment, that 
there is a mental, moral and physical adaptation neces- 
sary in the beings who are to spend life together so in- 
timately; and all the reasoning, and all the religion in 
the world, cannot overcome an antipathy which may 
exist between two who possess many excellent qualities, 
and who might each have made some other happy. 
Lilly Morris was elegant in manners, beautiful, and in 
some respects gifted, but she was not fitted to be the 
wife of such a man as Albert Gr. He did not love her, 
and he could not love her. He might have been kind, 
but happiness was out of the question. 



46 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

" Oh I know now that I did wrong." How many 
times I have heard this bm'st from that heart so steeped 
in misery. What a retribution she has experienced for 
such a wrong. Yet, Hke a true woman, she condemns 
herself rather than accuse another. She knows that he 
whom she trusted, was bound by every law of honor to 
marry Milly Day. Words had not engaged them, but 
all " those little attentions which betrayed the one heart 
and seek to win the other," he had lavished on one who 
was fitted to make him happy. Milly was neither beau- 
tiful nor rich, but she had a character fitted to strike with 
awe one who should attempt to tyrannize over her, 
and he would have respected her. But he could not 
understand or appreciate a quiet submissive nature — one 
who preferred to suffer rather than wrangle, and so he 
trampled her in the dust. 



The weary years roll on, and though there is more 
of external comfort, there has been found no earthly 
solace for the heart. But it has been filled with grace 
from Heaven, and thus perhaps life has been prolonged, 
and the capacity of suffering increased. 

For no cause which she can devise, the husband en- 
ters the house in a raging fury, and utters taunts which 



LOVE AND MONEY. 47 

Sting her in evei-y nerve — offers her money, any thing, 
if she will leave him, or give him cause to desert her, 
and authorize the law to sunder them forever. 

" Never, never !" she exclaims ; " you may leave me, 
but I will never leave you !" And now he beats her — 
beats her in hope she will be driven to flee — beats her 
till his children interfere and save him from the crime 
of murder. Still she cries " I will never leave you." 
He tortures her with every epithet of opprobrium, and 
pours the bitter words of hatred into her ears, and still 
she clings to him. Is it pride or is it love ? I know not 
how to solve the mystery. 

For fifty years she has suffered and struggled, and 
borne ; for fifty years she has smiled and toiled for him 
who has never spoken one word of kindness ; fifty years 
of unutterable wretchedness has she endured, and yet 
her heart has never swerved. 

The hope of riches enticed him, and oh the curse it 
brought ! He married one whom he did not love, " for 
filthy lucre's sake ;" and an old lady who has seen much 
of the woi-ld, often remarks, that though the wicked 
often prosper more than the righteous, there is one sin 
which never goes unpunished, even in this world — per- 
jury to a trusting heart. The thought of the wrong 
rankled in his bosom, and not producing repentance and 
humility, converted his spirit to gall and wormwood. 



48 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

And what became of Milly, whom he loved, and with 
whom he could have lived a happy life? Who would 
have hushed and soothed that fiendish nature, and pre- 
served him a respectable and respected man ? 

Hers was the history of many a lone and desolate 
heart. She never loved another, and early sunk a vic- 
tim to consumption. This is what they called it 

— the same that withers and blights so many. She lived 
to know the misery of him who had so injured and be- 
trayed her, and she triumphed in Lilly's wretchedness. 

God forgive her, though she could not forgive another. 
Magnanimity was not one of her virtues ; she had not a 
noble heart. I hope ere it was called to give up earth, 
it was purified and made meet for Heaven. 

Never did I know so strange an instance of parental 
neglect as that of Albert Gi-. I have seen unkind hus- 
bands, who were yet fond fathers, but for none of his 
children did he manifest a father's pride, or a father's 
love. How could he thus neglect that beautiful daugh- 
ter. Not one in all that gay assembly attracts so much 
attention, or wins so many smiles. 

How often it is asked, " Where did she get those 
faultless manners — that queenly grace !" Her hair is 
auburn, and the expression of her hazel eye is soft and 
sweet — there is the blush of girlhood, and the dignity 
of womanhood. 



LOVE AND MONEY. 49 

To all Around she is the merry creature, with less of 
depth than surface, on whom grief would sit lightly, and 
whom age w^ould scarcely deign to mar. 

She is not twenty, and there is a furrow upon her 
temple which time will never efface, and a tiny curve 
upon her ruby lip ; and there is, when none are by to 
see, a shadow on her brow which the years and com- 
mon sorrows of half a century would not have power 
to deepen. Twenty years ! The season of hope and 
gaiety to all to whom this season can ever come, and to 
her only one long year of sadness ! 

She never clambered on her father's knee, and never 
felt a father's kiss. — They say he is proud of her; but 
oh, if he could once fold her to his bosom, and say, " I 
love you," it would seem to be the full measure of 
earthly happiness. 

Though it has been all her life paralyzed with terror, 
her heart is full of gushing affection ; though chilled by 
coldness and crushed by neglect, it is still warm, and 
throbs with every noble impulse. 

There she stands, with a countenance so lighted with 

sunny smiles that not one in the merry throng, who 

looks at her imagines her heart to be loss joyous than 

her own. Were she to yield to melancholy, while so 

little is understood of the cause, it would be ascribed to 

unamiability ; and so she conceals under this careless 
3 



50 THE MYllTLE WllEATil. 

exterior the worm that is gnawing, gnawing, and is sus 
tained and cheered by the smile of Heaven. 

To her mother she is a ministering angel; to her 
brothers, the loving sister and gentle counsellor ; to her 
father — that cold stern man — the respectful devoted 
daughter, ever watchful of his comfort, and ever cheer- 
ful, but never rewarded by a smile or word of appro- 
bation. 

Yet that father was what the world calls agreeable 
and fascinating in his youth — very like many whom I 
see bowing and smiling around me — fortune-hunters — 
cold, calculating and unprincipled, who make, for those 
who love and trust them, just such wretched homes as 
he has made for two of earth's most lovely daughters. 

How I would Uke to impress it upon these unsuspi- 
cious girls, that a true and loving heart is worth more 
than all the gold of Culifornia's mines. And above all, 
I would like to convince them that he who has been 
unfaithful to one will never prove faithful to another ; 
that he who thinks a betrothal, whether by words or 
looks, or deeds, a light affair — who looks with indiffer- 
ence upon the sufferings of her whom he has deserted 
and humiliated by breaking a troth plight, will be false 
to his marriage vows, and she who trusts such lips will 
suffer the same wretched doom as the fair and thought- 
less Lilly. 



LOVE AND MONEY. 51 

But it seems sadder still that a daughter so pure and 
lovely, and I had almost said faultless, should be born to 
such an inheritance. AVhen the heart has been wrung 
with anguish, and crusljed by some sudden misfortune, 
it will heal again, renew its elasticity and throb with 
the pulse of new and joyous life. But when the weight 
is one that is never for an instant lightened, producing 
a constant sense of heaviness — to feel that youth is pass- 
ing thus and the young blood oozing drop by drop 
from the yearning heart, leaving it chilled ere the first 
frosts of age have gathered upon the brow, or time 
has bid the footstep falter in its course, — oh, this is to 
make life a Hving death. But if there is a brighter 
crown awaiting those who " pass though much tribu- 
lation, here on earth," surely hers will be set with bril- 
liants, and dazzle with its glorious brightness 



§0ng 0f tire €amtli 



TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF BER ANGER. 



Rush on, my proud courser, the trump of the north, 

Bids the steed of the warrior to battle go forth ; 

On, on to the carnage with foam on thy breath, 

And lend speed to the wings and the arrows of death. 

Neither saddle nor bridle is burnished with gold, 

They wait till the deeds of ray valor are told. 

Neigh proudly, my courser, for aye, it is meet, 

That Kings should be crushed with the tramp of thy feet. 



BONG OF THE COSSACK. 53 

They tell me of peace, but I know not its birth, 
The ramparts of Europe are levelled to Earth. 
Go, roam by the Seine, where oft reeking with blood, 
Thou hast bathed in her waters, and quaffed her pure 

flood; 
On, on till the treasures of Princes are mine, 
Till the sacred repose of the valiant is thine. 
Neigh proudly my courser, for aye, it is meet. 
That Kings should be crushed with the tramp of thy feet. 

Erom the North to the South, from the West to the East, 
The prince and the noble, the peasant, and priest, 
Have bid us come forth, and assert in the field, 
That the serf to the tyrant, no longer shall yield. 
I have taken my lance, I have heeded their call. 
And the cross, and the sceptre before it must fall. 
Neigh proudly, my courser, for aye, it is meet, 
That Kings should be crushed with the tramp of thy feet. 

I have seen in a vision the phantom of him. 

By whose glance the quick flash of the lightning were dim. 

A giant with voice like the thunder he seemed. 

And high on his shoulder the battle axe gleamed. 

'Tvvas the valorous Attila, chief of the north. 

And like him with his hordes will the Cossack go forth. 

Neigh proudly, my courser, for aye it is meet. 

That Kings should be crushed with the tramp of thy feet. 



54 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

Proud Europe may boast, but her pride will be crushed) 

Her princes and nobles lie low in the dust ; 

The throne it must totter, the palace must reel, 

'Mid the crashing of w^alls and the clashing of steel ; 

This, this be the tocsin that quickens his speed. 

The spur of the war horse the Cossack's brave steed. 

Neigh proudly, my courser, for aye, it is meet, 

That Kings should be crushed with the tramp of thy feet. 



^t lliMmwt gabj. 



How strangely and harshly will the word unwel- 
come fall on the ear of that pale gentle being, 
whose mournful countenance tells us thafshe has con- 
signed her only little one to the grave. What words 
could tell her agony when she saw that lovely form lie 
cold and still in death ; when she knew that those soft 
sweet tones would never more fall on her ear; that she 
could never more look on herinfmt's smile. How could 
a being so bright and pure, and beautiful, be otherwise 
than welcome ? 

(55) 



56 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

And it will seem as mysterious to her whose home 
hus never been gladdened by the sunshine of infancy, 
nor rung with tTle joyous laugh of childhood. And yet 
this little baby receiv^id no welcome when its tiny form 
met a mother's gaze, and those deep blue eyes opened to 
the light in a world where " all were strange and none 
w^ere kind." 

"Was he not fair and comely to look upon ? Oh, yes, 
no baby of an hour could be more so ; he had a little 
golden head, and the genuine ros3^tint, and he cried and 
stretched and sniffled like the majority of babies, and as 
he lay on a pillow in the great chair, buried in the folds 
of a little blanket; scolloped all round with white silk, 
with four dots in each scollope, a quilt, a comforter and 
various etceteras, lest he should take cold, with the 
thermometer at ninety in the shade, he was pronounced 
a remarkable specimen of babyhood, which would one 
day do honor to the state. 

But still the niother smiled not. He was placed in 
her arms and held to her bosom, but she bestowed on 
him no look of love. Poor little baby — he had no 
choice but to live, though it seemed sometimes as if he 
was conscious that the being on w^hom he was depend- 
ant for life and nourishment, did not tend him fondly. 

And w^hy did she not ? Oh, she was weary. She 
had bestowed the same attentions on twelve just like 
him — he was an odd member. Her oldest w^as a man 



THE UNWELCOME BABY. 57 

and her daughters were young ladies, and baby was an 
old story, and she was old too, altogether too old to be 
tending babies ! But there was a little boy scarce two 
years old and a little girl scarce four who " were ready 
to eat him up, he was so little and so cunning." They 
climbed up into a chair by mother's bed a dozen times 
a day, to see if he was still there — that little baby — and 
if he had "growed" any, and to ask if he would ever be 
as big as they. 

All unconscious of the looks of love or of indifference, 
the little boy " growed" amazingly, and began to look 
about, and wink, and open and shut his little hands, and 
to smile, and what was more amazing, he grew into the 
hearts of all the household. Except perhaps that tall 
young man ; who still passed b}^ without putting off his' 
dignity so much as to smile on so insignificant a crea- 
ture. 

"When he had so progressed in knowledge, and skill 
in using it, as to notice red ribbons, and to pull the curls 
of his sisters, he had become transformed. into a pro- 
digy — there never was such a baby before. He had 
the W'Onderful and mysterious habit of putting his finger 
in his mouth ! and a dozen times a day, a dozen of chil- 
dren might be seen running at the call of another to see 
baby — he had his finger in his mouth ! Every morning 
be was 2yut in a tub and there he splashed and spattered 
like a little dolphin, and every morning the sight was 



58 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

just as new, and attracted the s-.iine number of specta- 
tors. At length he was discovered at the muxiinum of 
baby-le^erdermain — he was sucking his toe. Wiiat an 
uproar, father and mother and all are actually ;^athered 
around to see, what they probably have not seen more 
than a million of times, and then baby beginning to feel 
his importance, laughs aloud for the first time. One 
would really have thought there was never such a sound 
heard by them before. 

He is asleep, and lies there in his little crib, all tucked 
in with his little white quilt, with only just his nose half 
out. and every one of the family may be seen wending 
his way to a certain corner of the nursery Just to hole at 
hiiu, he is so sweet and looks so cunning. And when his 
bright blue eyes open again to the light, there is such a 
conflict about w^ho shall take him, that the mother is 
obliged to interfere, lest he should be divided, and no 
time has she the privilege of keeping him herself, he is 
so monopohzed. AVhen he is a little older and can hold 
a rattle and move blocks, what a pleasure for half a 
dozen to stand ready to pick them up as he roguishly 
strews them on the floor. By and by he is tied in a 
chair and sits at the table, and watching his opportunity, 
the first thing we know his hand is buried in a plate of 
pudding. What a marvellous feat ! Indeed whether 
he is sleeping or waking — playful or quiet, in his crib or 
in mischief, he is at all times equally wonderful. The 



THE UNWELCOME BABY. 59 

mother blushes to think that such a little angel of love 
and beauty should ever have been unwelcome ! What 
a peace-maker he is; what a composer of all discor- 
dances. AVhat should they do without the baby ? 
What a pure love pervades all the atmosphere where lie 
is smiling. How desolate would have been their abode 
without the thirteenth boy — the joy, the sunsliine, the 
blessing of the household ! 

Oh, how w^e love the baby, 

The little fair haired boy, 
Whose smile so bright and beaming 

Is the sunshine to our joy. 

How graceful every motion 

Of his little hands at play, 
AVith the flow^ers upon the carpet, 

Or the toys we throw away. 

How w^e love to build the castles, 

He delights to overthrow. 
The towers and mimic Babels, 

He levels at a blow. 

Were he the '' heir apparent" 

"Expectant of a crown," 
No more devoted homage, • . 

Could unto him be shown. 



60 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

He is a little tyrant, 
We see it very plain ; 

And yet there's not a rebel, 
In all his vast domain. 

"Whatever be the mischief 
His little hands may do. 

Tell mother " it was baby," 

And she laughs at mischief too. 

Are we ever rudely playing 
When he wills to go to sleep, 

We hush the gentle whisper, 
And breathless silence keep. 

*Tis not by wand of fairy, 
Or beauty's magic spell, 

Pray w^hat can be the sceptre, 
With which he rules so well ? 

Oh 'tis one which those far wiser, 
I often wish would hold, 

For it will turn to softness. 
The heart of sternest mould. 



THE UNWELCOME BABY. 

In the smile so sweetly playing, 
Upon his dimpled cheek — ^ 

In the eye so brightly beaming, 
Is the love he cannot speak. 



% $lm\\ Sfliit en i\t ©Ijiff. 



WHAT right have women to travel ! What an intol- 
erable nuisance they are, with their bandboxes and 
bundles, and rackety children. I am not a believer in the 
" equality of woman with a man in birth or intellect," or 
" rights." The only objection I have to the present ordain- 
ing of things, is, that, "being made so dependent, there 
should not be some way provided by which we may al- 
ways have something to depend upon ! To be thrown 
entirely on the care of beings, superior in every way and 

created on purpose to protect and shield us, and never 

(62) 



A STEAM BOAT ON THE OHIO. 63 

nllowed to ask their protection, is indeed a distressing 
condition. We may fold ouriiandsand submissively take 
what is offered, thongh it is not quite proper to do this 
without demurring a little, but to make known our wants 
is a departure from the " true sphere of woman." 

How I envy those men,— not the privilege of smok- 
ing and drinking and chewing and spitting, and roam- 
ing about wherever they please, but all those papers 
which are strewn about the table in the cabin. There 
they sit gossipping, and dozing, and yawning, and 
have never a thought of sharing luxuries so easy for 
them to obtain. .Whenever the boat stops at any impor- 
tant place they sally forth and return laden with 
" Times," " Tribunes " and '< Posts," and when they have 
finished reading, trample them under their feet, without 
a thought that there is a better use to be made of them. 
But I have as yet been very fortunate, so much so, that 
I ought perhaps, to be expressing my gratitude instead 
of finding fault. I have seen every Weekly Times and 
many Daihes since I left New York. '' Littell's Living 
Age," and " Harper's Magazine," and " Godey," and 
" Graham," adorn the centre tables of Ohio, Indiana 
and Kentucky, as profusely as they do those of New- 
England and New York. We supplied ourselves with 
" reading" as we thought, at Louisville, but it is a long 
way down the river from that city, and we are moving 
very slowly. Our boat is freighted with emigrants, for 



•64 THE MYRTLE WREATH 

we could not wait longer for a " first class," and a motley 
assemblage is presented to our eyes as we look around 
on our fellow passengers. A friend in L., in speaking 
of the Kentucky emigrants, said if they were " so well to 
do in the world as to be able to wear hats and sun- 
bonnets, they were considered remarkably prosperous." 

Eight before me is *' one of them," and truly the green- 
est specimen of humanity I was ever permitted to see. 
He is " six feet two" in his stockings. His hat is a " broad 
brimmed wool," and a nice comfortable hat — his coat 
is green " homemade" and his " pants" are the same, 
reaching, within a few inches, of the top of his feet. His 
vest is green also, but his neckerchief is blue cotton, 
the figure being small white rings with a dot of 
blue in the centre. His boots are genuine cowhide, 
made for use, and his hair of the lightest flaxen tint, 
parted on one side and smoothed with no meagre allow- 
ance of genuine " extrait deboeuf " 

His hands are in his coat pockets, and his eyes are 
resting on his bride. She is a little girl of fourteen and 
she wears a straw bonnet with a red ribbon. So you 
see they are of the better class ! Her dress is " light 
colored calico" cut " goring," after the fashion of our 
grandmothers. On her neck is a red and yellow cotton 
kerchief, brought together at the waist, and fastened- 
with a green stone, with a pin attached. Her stockings 
are of blue cotton, and her shoes calfskin, tied with 



65 A STEAM BOAT ON THE OHIO. 

" strino'S of the same." All their effects are contained 

o 

in a common-sized flag-handkerchief, and they are go- 
ing four hundred miles up the Missouri river ' to settle.' 
And moreover, dear reader, they are happ}?-, if I may 
judge from appearances, which I know are in such cases, 
sometimes deceitful. 

A lady unmarried at sixteen is a " sight" in these 
parts, and this specimen of matrimonial felicity was not 
lacking in discernment, as the following dialogue will 
prove. " Are you married?" said she, to one of our 
party. " No," was the reply. " Wall, I thought ye 
wa'nt." " Why, what made you think so ?" " Oh, I 
don't know, kinder coz ; but you've got on a putty 
gownd," she continued as a salve to her implication. 
" Do you like it ?" said my friend. " Yis, and you're 
the puttiest gal on the boat !" You would have trem- 
bled for the effect of this remark on her vanity if you 
had seen the others. There are '' four new married 
couples" on board, but only one need be described. 
They bear a strong resemblance to each other, and are 
all bound to the same place with similar prospects. 
There are also two " harum scarum" young men, 
from an eastern city, who persuade them to dance in 
the evening, for the amusement of "the company, while 
a young man who has "seen enough of Oregon," plays 
Kentucky reels for them with his " fiddle and his bov\'." 
A genuine Hoosier who has committed to memory an 



66 ^ THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

incredible amount of Webster's and Everett's speeches, 
mounts the table and overwhelms us with his elo- 
quence. 

It is quite worth a journey hitherward to see these 
varieties of character, and listen to the thoughts and 
opinions of those who have never received a single idea 
from books. There is often an originahty which is 
quite refreshing, and most truly it is edifying, compared 
to the vapid *' wishy washy" conversation in some of 
our city drawing-rooms. The rough backwoodsman 
is just the man to tell me about the trees of the forest, 
and from his wife I obtain the truest idea of " life in the 
country," and especially of her neighborhood and the 
" neighbors," 



Jilt liuiknt I)j| i\t Wcq. 



STEAMBOATS have become second homes to me, 
and travelling second nature. I should not 
have believed such a home body could become so re- 
conciled to being " here, there, and everywhere." " To 
pack a trunk and get started," was once a day's labor ; 
but I have condensed it into a few moments, and this is 
no slight accomplishment. And then to ensconce my- 
self comfortably in a nutshell, required more skill and 
cunning than I was for a long time in possession of 

But now I have room enough, and to spare, in a little 

(67) 



68 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

cell four feet by six, and there I sew, and knit, and 
read, and " take notes," as if I were " monarch of all 
I survey." 

Alas ! what a leveller of all distinctions is ^ western 
steamboat, and how I would like to lead some of your 
city exquisites into our kitchen to witness the operation 
of getting iqj a dinner. It would not cost much to 
board them for a day or two afterwards. 

Every cook that I have seen has looked exactly like 
every other cook ; a sooty giant, but full of enthusi- 
asm for his profession, and there he stands over the 
stove, not quite so huge nor so black as himself, with 
the big drops rolling thick and fast from his full round 
cheeks into every dish he compounds, while some half a 
dozen nimble sprites of the same hue, with their woolly 
locks twisted into tails sticking out perpendicularly and 
horizontally in every direction, execute his orders. 

I have never yet seen a public table since I crossed 
the AUeghames without hominy and beans, and hoe- 
cakes — but the corn meal is not the rich yellow of the 
New England grain, and the hominy is white, and the 
cakes are far from yellow. There is a big black kettle 
in which one is stirring some favorite mixture — there is 
another mashing potatoes, though not with his feet, as 
I was once credibly informed was sometimes the case, 
but with something as ebony ; another is attending to 
the spit and fry-pans ; and a dozen other " stews " and 



AN INCIDENT BY THE WAY. 69 

'' sizzles " are sputtering in ditlerent parts of the cook- 
ing apparatus. 

The water in which every thing is boiled, you see 
dipped from the river, thick with its rich accumulations, 
and those who pound and compound have as little care 
for the delicate education of your palate as for the ob- 
tuseness of their own. " And is it possible you can eat 
such a dinner after having seen it in its several stages 
of preparation ?" I hear you ask. To be sure — what 
else is to be done with an appetite grown ravenous un- 
der the tutelage of this constant exercise, and these 
fine breezes. Every body must eat a peck of dirt, you 
know, and no more is allowed to each individual — so 
you might as well take it at one time as at another. 
And then these sooty sprites come up all " shiny and 
new " to wait upon Madame and Miss, and whisper in 
their ears, and reach over their shoulders at table. One 
might be excused for squirming a little, but what's the 
use ? There is no greater folly than to set out on a 
tour, whether it be in Europe, Asia, or America, with 
the idea that people must conform to you, instead of 
your comforming to them. And there is no truer way 
by which to judge of the bringing np of your fellow- 
passengers than the way they take things. 

An amusing scene occurred at our table today. We 
had all noticed a dashing, dandy young Southerner, 
with the airs of a urince, and dress of a nabob, " with 



70 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

rings on his fingers," if not " bells on his toes," order- 
ing and strutting about, and had really longed for his 
humiliation, when we found that two not so green Ver- 
monters had undertaken the task. They took their 
seats opposite him, and one had obtained various lea- 
ther and iron ornaments w^ith which he had decked his 
3^eoman figure, and took especial pains to parade to the 
greatest advantage. A saddle ring was on his fore- 
finger, upon which he rested his chin with the most 
sentimental air, and as nearly as it was possible for a 
Northern common-sense man to do, assumed the airs 
of a Southern conceited ignoramus. A servant stood 
behind his chair, w^ho had been previously initiated into 
his duties and liberally prepaid for his obedience, and 
every five minutes he w^as called upon to attend to 
*' Massa," — to hand him this and to hand him that. If 
he departed a few feet, as he often did for eflect, he 
was called back with a serious reprimand, to which he 
only replied with increased complaisance — and yet not 
a smile crossed the visage of the actor, though all who 
could view the scene were convulsed with suppressed 
laughter. 

The face of him, who w^as thus caricatured, w^as 
bloated with rage, for he evidently understood it all too 
well, though there was no direct incivility to him, but 
on the contrary the most studied suavity, and he could 
make no complaint, as it is a free country on the Mis- 



AN INCIDENT BY THE WAY. 71 

sissippi river, if not on all its borders ! and the gentle- 
man opposite had as good a right to wear leather rings, 
and to display thein, as his friend had to wear gilt and 
tinsel. And he had also a right to be waited upon in 
the most assiduous manner, if he paid for the service. 

I assure you the cabin echoed with merriment when 
dinner was fairly over, but the poor fellow, whom we 
actually began to pity, was never heard of more. He 
availed himself of the first landing to disappear among 
the cotton trees. We then learned that he had felt 
insulted by the presence of one, who had not, in his 
eyes, the marks of a gentleman, and he had requested 
the steward to remand such a nuisance as a rnan in a 
plain cloth coat and roundabout to the lower deck, 
among those more akin to him in appearance. So my 
countryman thought he would be revenged. He did 
not budge an inch from his position which he had a 
right to retain, having paid the full cabin price, but he 
did not tell all— which I had the good fortune to learn 
confidentially, being just as green as he, and coming 
from the same Green Mountain State— that he had in 
his pocket $30,000 in California gold, which he thought 
entitled him to the respect of even a Southern planter ! 



m mW' 



Oh that some image of my mother's form 
I might retrace. Too early called away 
For me to know her virtues or her worth 
The hallowed name my lips could scarcely lisp, 
When death deprived me of her tender care. 
I knew not why we round her dying bed 
Were called, nor why she clasped me in her arms, 
And moved her lips so fervently in prayer, 
Nor when within her pale and wasted hand 
She pressed each hand of all that mourning group, 
That blessing them her dying words she spoke. 

(72) 



MY MOTH£R. 73 

I ne'er was taught by her my evening hymn ; — 
Story nor song, I know not, which her voice 
Imparted to my listening ear. No smile, 
Nor look nor tone, is on my memory's page 
Impressed. No mother e'er my pillow smoothed, 
Hushed me to slumber in my cradle bed. 
Or led in infancy my faltering feet. 

How often have I knelt beside the stone 
That marks her burial place, and loved to think 
Her spirit hovered o'er me there and blessed 
Her orphan child ; and then have turned and wept 
In bitterness of heart, and slowly traced 
My homeward steps, to find within that home 
No shrine e'er sacred to the joys and woes 
Confiding childhood feels. How oft they chid 
My grief, and asked me w^hy I shed those tears ; 
And yet I could not tell, but turned away, 
Sought some secluded place, and wept the more. 

'Twas strange that sadness thus should cloud a brow 
Where only pleasure's halo should have shone — 
That one whose path was strewn with flowers, and all 
The world could yield of bright and beautiful, 
Should sigh in loneliness. They never dreamed 
That one so young could pine for sympathy, 
4 



74 THE MYRTLE WFEATII, 

Or mourn a mother she hud never known. 
Thus days and months, and years have passed away, 
And yet no balm hath soothed my bleeding heart, 
No bliss hath filled the achins void within ! 



Some other form may kindly hover o'er 

The restless couch ; — some other hand may fan 

The fevered brow, may cool the parching lips, 

And bathe the throbbiiig temples. Words of peace 

And comfort may be whispered by some voice 

In soothing accents and in gentle tones, 

And consolation come from stranger hearts; 

Yet none but a fond mother can receive 

Each thought and feeling of the inmost soul, 

Share every joy and woe, and heiir each tale 

Of childish sorrow with unwearying ear. 

Though she may chide, it is affection's proof; 

The fountain of her love flows ever full. 

Though to'the dregs she drink affliction's cup, 

Though cold adversity may shed its blight 

On every wreath and garland hope may weave ; 

Though disappointment crush her energies. 

And every other tie that binds her down 

To earth be severed, still she lingers here 

With angel's love to cherish those she bore. 



MY MOTHER. 75 

Yes, and though sin may stump its mark 
Upon the brow her lips so fondly pressed 
In infant innocence, and o'er the cheek 
So oft caressed in cherub beauty, guilt 
May spread its sable hue, and scorn put forth 
Her slow unmoving finger, branding him 
With shame and infamy, yet still, unchanged 
And pure, more brightly beams a mother's love. 

Oh, priceless gem, whose lustre never dims, 
But brighter blazes 'mid the storms of life. 
Thy hallowed ray may never guide me on 
Through earth's dark pilgrimage, but may that pearl 
Whose holy light alone can thine excel, 
The beacon of my lonely way become. 
And point me upwards to that glorious realm 
Where all is purit}'- ; where I may rest 
With her who fondly clasped her little ones. 
And breathed her spirit out in prayer, that she 
Might meet them all again in yon bright world. 
Where partings shall be heard no more forever. 



Serins 0f Ile5r0ait. 



BULWER denies to the celebrated Beau Brummell 
the right to the title of gentleman^ because he was 
often guilty of alludiug to personal deformities and mis- 
fortunes in the presence of those possessing them, which 
no person with the feelings of a gentleman could do 
inadvertently, and no person of common humanity 
would do intentionally. 

I have been thinking that if this standard were uni- 
versally applied there w^ould be few who w^ould be 

rightly termed gentlemen or ladies. How common it ia 

(76) - 



TERMS OF REPROACH. 77 

among all classes to speak in terms of contempt of per- 
sons in various conditions or occupying painful positions, 
for the circumstances of which they are not at all re- 
sponsible. How common it is to allude to the aged in 
a manner which implies contempt for all who are old. 
Many children are in the habit of calling their Parents 
" the old man," and " the old woman," in tones of dis- 
respect, which imply that age in their eyes is con- 
temptible. 

To tell a person, he is an " old granny" if he is dis- 
agreeable, is a common way of expressing contempt. 
" Granny" used to be, and still is in some places, the 
familiar term by which children are taught to address 
a grandmother. Age may have enfeebled her body and 
impaired her mental faculties, but these are infirmities 
which she cannot help, and which should purchase for 
her greater consideration and kindness. To fasten upon 
a man this epithet is a sure method to cover him with 
ridicule, and authors and editors often use it in a way 
which is both vulgar and wicked. 

It is common to find in books allusions to various 
physical defects in a way which must be torture like the 
rack and thumbscrew to those who possess them. How 
universally is homeliness made a matter of reproach. 
Every person knows and will confess that it is no dis- 
grace to be lame, or to be plain in features, or inferior 
in form, and no person whose regard is of any value, 



78 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

would deliberately speak or act in a manner to wound 
another on those points. 

Hood says " much evil is often wrought for want of 
thought as well as want of heart." How often the heart- 
less rich trample on the feelings of the poor. The smile 
of ridicule often meets the eye of the stammerer when 
every attempt to speak is anguish to his spirit. How 
much grace is necessary in the deaf to meet with com- 
placency those who " mock at their calamity." How 
little sympathy is bestowed on wounded affection, and 
how ready are the multitude to trample on a broken 
heart. 

The allotted portion of a lonely and desolate hearted 
woman, is scorn, all the days of her life. What daugh- 
ter has not heard the prophecy that she would be an 
" old maid" reiterated as the most degrading of all the 
calamities which could be foreboded ? 

As a consequence of this sentiment, so prevailing, and 
so thoroughly inculcated, a young lady of beauty and 
fashion was heard to say, she w^ould commit suicide 
before she would live to be the object of such oppro- 
brium. The chronicles of hospitals and the " dia- 
ries of physicians," inform us, that hundreds and thou- 
sands go forth to voluntary self degradation, seeking the 
lowest haunts of vice to screen them from the reproach 
which a Christian community seem to consider as justly 
belonging to a virtuous unmaried w^oman. An orphan, 



TERMS OF REPllOACII. 79 

uhose parents had wickedly deserted her, was neglected 
and made to feel every day and hour, by the looks and 
tones of the thoughtless and heartless around her, that 
she had neither home, nor kindred, nor friends, and 
therefore could not be their equal. 

How universally are the hearts of children wrung and 
agonized by the taunts of their playfellows concerning 
the sins of their parents. Ho.vv universal are the terms 
" Paddy," and " nigger," used as terms of reproach, yet 
it is no sin to have been born in Ireland, or to inherit 
a colored skin. On remarking this to a lady, she seemed 
astonished at the idea, that these cjasses felt the scorn 
thus heaped upon them. But they do feel, and the 
words and looks of reproach that meet them at every 
step, rankle like sharp arrows in their bosom. Any 
lanpleasant peculiarity, not caused by sin, which distin- 
guishes a man from his fellows, and makes him an ob- 
ject of remark, it is unchristian, unprincipled, and 
grossly vulgar, to make a matter of reproach. 



|i ^mlm €mxt$\i^. 



1WAS sitting in a lone corner of a brilliant parlor, 
feeling particularly lonely, surrounded with a multi- 
tude, whom I knew not, and who knew not me, and 
more than all, who did not care, when I was accosted 
by a funny little man, who took his chair and seated 
himself by my side sans ceremonie, and began immedi- 
ately to entertain me after this wise. 

" I'll tell you what it is," said he, " I never courted 
but one gal in my hfe, except my wife, and I'll tell you 
how it was : I began to think I was about old enough 

(80) 



A YANKEE COUllTaHIP. 81 

to — to have somebody take care of me; my mother was 
feeble, and my sister was married, though I had two 
that were not. I don't know why. I beUeve they had 
apphcations enough, but somehow they didn't suit; 
and I asked my mother what she thought about Sally 
Jane, the daughter of one of our neighbors. 

*' A right smart girl she was, Sally Jane, and one of 
the best dispositioned girls you ever see. I used to see 
her most every day, and kept waiting to ask her to 
" keep company," but could never get it out ; so I went 
down to see my brother one day about a lot of land that 
lay next to Sally Jane's father's — only her father was 
dead, you know, and the land was all hers now — and I 
just told him how it was, and how I felt right here, 
(laying his hand on his heart,) and asked him what I 
should do. He said I better not " go to see her " till I 
had asked her if I might, and advised me to pluck up 
courage and speak right away. 

" So the next morning, I got up very earl}^, and went 
over, determined to have it out. You know— just to 
ivhisper something in her ear?'' 

Here the little man stopped to take breath, and I was 
almost convulsed with laughter at his queer ways and 
strange communicativeness with one to whom he had 
never spoken before. But very willing to hear the 
sequel of such a story, I now begged him to proceed, 
and he said, " Oh, yes, I am going to tell you. Very 



82 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

early in the morning I started off, and found Sally Jane 
in the cucumber ^-ard. Her brother Robert had been 
trying to have me buy a horse of him, but I didn't want 
the horse, you see^ because, though he was a good 
horse enough every other way, they said whenever he 
was tied to a post or fence, or what not, he would 
nibble and nibble at everything he could reach, and do 
more mischief than you could tell^ So I wouldn't buy 
the horse, and Robert was kind o' out of sorts ; but I 
didn't mind him, I was thinking so much about Sally 
Jane, so I w^alked right into tha cucumber yard, and 
followed round among the vines, till at last, just as she 
w^as going into the house, I went close up and said, 
"Will you keep company to night?" and she said, 
right off, " She didn't choose." And I scampered off 
like a good fellow. 

" Now^, I never knew w^hether it was because I 
\\T\sn't dandy and spruce enough, or whether it was 
about the horse ; or, perhaps, she was thinking I was 
after the land w^hich mine joined — but I wasn't; I never 
thought of it. But I went right and sold mine, when, 
if I had only waited, I might have got six hundred 
dollars more, for it was real rich meadow land — down 
in Connecticut, you know, right on the river." 

By this time my immoderate laughter had attracted 
an audience, and my little corner and its scene became 
the object of much curiosity. 



A YANKEE COURTSHIP. S3 

The little man was the greatest enigma I have ever 
found; but I thought at least I would try to solve it, 
so I begged him to give us the history of his successful 
courtship ; to which he consented, and immediately re- 
sumed, saying, " Oh, yes ; the next time I was more 
careful. Eliza Ann was one of our neighbors, and they 
used to buy milk of us ; and for a whole year, I used to 
go in most every day to carry the milk ; but I didn't 
say anything, nor do anything either. For I tell you 
what; I think it is abominable, it is abominable^ and I 
always say so to all young men — it is mean, and one of 
the wickedest things in natur', for a feller to kind o' 
keep a girl along ; " keeping company," and pretending 
to like her, and then leave her ; 'cause, you see, if he 
had kept away, somebody better might have gone and 
married her, and give her a happy home ; and he, per- 
haps has made her miserable for lite ! 

Now, I really began to like the little man, and con- 
trast his noble soul, in so rough and queer a casket, 
with some of those polished, butterfly, soulless and 
heartless popinjays by whom he was surrounded. I 
wish they tould have heard his earnest words, and seen 
his earnest gestures, as he defined his ideas of honor. I 
interrupted him, to speak a word of commendation, and 
then begged him to proceed. 

" Well, I was never guilty of disappointing a woman. 
But, by and by, Eliza Ann moved up to H , (about 



84 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

fifteen miles,) and I tLoiight, after a while, I would go 
to see her, for I wanted a wife, and begun to feel really 
bad thinkinof what I should do if I was sick. So, one 
cold winter's day, I drove up and went in, and had not 
been there but a little while before they made up a fire 
in the other room^ and asked me to walk in. Pretty 
soon, Eliza Ann came and began to talk about mat- 
ters and things. I was kind o' sick — you know how — 
not knowing how I should ever say what I w^anted to ; 
but at last I broke the ice, and asked her if she could 
ever think of going home to live with me. ' Why,' said 
she, * can^t you find girls enough in — ?' So, I see 
she didn't w^ant to answer ' Yes ' right off — you know 
they never do — and I told her she need not answer at 
all now, because I wanted her to ask her relations, and 
consider about it, and in three weeks I would come up 
and hear what she had to say. 

" I was kind of uneasy uU them three weeks, I tell 
you, though I was pretty sure what Eliza i^nn would 
say; and when I went up, I see in a minute how it was 
— and in three weeks more I went up, and took her 
home. But would you believe it? — I was«o modest, 
that all the time I was courting her, I never gave her a 
single smack. I've asked her since what she thought 
of me, and she said she thought I was dreadful modest." 

Here I interrupted him, to ask if he had never repent- 
ed his choice, and his hearty " never," would have done 



A YANKEE COURTSHIP. 85 

Eliza x\nn good, though he said she had been always 
sick. I told him I hoped he had taken good care of 
her, and he said : " As true as I live, I don't believe she 
would find a word of fault." 

But then, he added, " I have always felt kind o' bad 
about Sally Jane ; for, you see, I liked her." " Did 
you ? " said I. " Why, yes, else I shouldn't have felt so 
bad here, you know, (placing his hands upon his chest.) 
For about a year and a half, after she treated me so, 
there came along a dandy, strutting, buck of a fellow, 
and she had him right off, and he spent all of her proper- 
ty ; and in less than tw^o years, she was laid in her grave." 

Here the tea bell interrupted our colloquy, but it was 
again resumed when I had fairly seated myself in my 
lone corner again as my fanny little friend appeared and 
said he would Hke to have another chat, though 'tis ht- 
tle of the chatting I do, when he is by. How do you 
like these gay ladies, said I, and all these fine dresses ? 
"Oh, I like 'em ; I like to look at 'em ; they are tasty ; 
blit, we might as well have so many wax-dolls or pup- 
pets dressed up ; what are they good for, except to dis- 
play French gewgaws? — that I don't like — so much 
French stuff; it takes the money out of the country ; and 
brings back, not only French flummery, but French 
manners and French morals ; and there is plenty of all 
kinds at Saratoga." But I suggested that if the gew- 
gaws were not mnde in this country, what should 



86 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

we do but send to France, or wherever they were 
made. " Why, to be sure, if you must wear them," 
said he; "but is there no such thing as convincing 
women what fools they are to be rigging themselves 
out in this style — doing nothing but dress, and dance, 
and flirt ?" No indeed, I assured him whilst men were 
more pleased with the dressing and dancing, and flirt- 
ing, than with anything else. Do you suppose these 
ladies spend two or three hours a day at their toilettes 
to please themselves ? They would be floating about 
here in negliges^ as easy and careless as the Indian girl 
on the prairie, in her blanket and mocasins, were there 
none but ladies to gaze and admire. But he insist- 
ed upon it, that ma7i did not admire — it was only a race 
of pigmies, half way between human beings and mon- 
keys, with not half an idea in their heads — with not 
the slightest resemblance to a soul, and nothing in the 
shape of a heart. " Very little time would be spent in 
dancing if ladies danced alone, or ladies alone looked on ; 
but those who are educated for such a life must live in 
this way — what else can they do ? Just look around 
to see how many fathers come here with their daugh- 
ters, to lavish on them money and dress, and every ex- 
travagant indulgence, — and all for what? Ah, I was 
musing in my corner the other night, when I heard one 
of those curtain lectures which produce such sad con- 
sequences, and which daughters are alone blamed for 



A YANKEE COURTSHIP. 87 

originating. " Reineniber, I have brought you here to 
get married — everything else has been tried. I have 
educated you, and accomplished you, and taken you to 
this pUice and that place, till there seems no hope of 
getting rid of jon. No old maids will I have in my 
house — SO- remember to play your cards well this time, 
for it is the last I can *do for you." These were the 
words of a father, and the daughters went forth to 
smile and simper, and dress and dance ; but, alas, for 
the getting married. I fear they are doomed to that 
terrible life for women — solitude, and idleness, a father's 
displeasure, and brother's contempt, because they are 
to be supported, and the money is all needed for other 
purposes — to esUcbiish sons, jjerhaps, and set them up in 
business. Poor girls, I pitied them, with their heavy 
hearts beneath all their tinsel and gauze, and the leaden 
consciousness that they had not the attractions that in- 
sure matrimony, and Avere allowed no agency in the 
matter, but to manceuver, therefore, must endure the 
bitter scorn all their lives which failures are sure to 
purchase. Stratagems in war and love are only honora- 
ble when they procure victor}^ 

Society compels woman to all manner of deception 
and artifice to secure herself a position ; and if she tri- 
umphs all honor is awarded : but woe to her whose 
snares are too visible to catch the unwary. 

I have looked deeper into the whys and wherefores 



88 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

than some who sketch manners in such a place as this. 
I have seen the tears and heard the secret sighs of those 
who abhor the hfe they lead — who are ready to sink 
with shame and humiliation ; they feel that they act 
from compulsion, and are scorned for the act. They 
are laboring in the only way which is permitted them to 
enter upon the " only proper sphere of w^oman," to pro- 
vide themselves ''a husband, home, and a quiet, domes- 
tic life ;" but oh, the anxiety and heart-burnings, the 
envy, and jealousy, and malice, and spite, which is 
engendered in the hearts of those who are thus striving. 

It is visible here, if not elsewhere, that woman needs 
elevating — there should be something else in life for her 
than this one position, or else it should be secured to 
her in a way that does not degrade and debase her 
whole nature. 

I look around and wonder why it is they grow old so 
fast — why they are so early withered and wrinkled and 
haggard. Oh, it is those dark and corroding passions, 
settling in their bosoms — gnawing and wasting — secret 
anguish, wringing the life blood from their hearts, and 
deepening the furrows upon the cheeks, ere they have 
scarce begun to live. 

But here exclaims some wise man counsellor, " Let 
them stay at home and be content !" Dear Sir, how 
long could you stay at home and be content ? You 
have a profession which occupies your time and thoughts. 



A YANKiiK CUUKTSHIF. 89 

You have money to travel when care and thought need 
to be dissipated, and you Can go, independent of escorts 
and attendants, without reproach. You have ambition 
to be gratified, and fame is a bright beacon in your 
pathway, alluring you onward, and beguiling you of 
all tediousness. If you desire love and domestic happi- 
ness, you can seek this, too, and do it openly and honor- 
ably and have no fears of disappointment. Imagine, if 
you can, all these things taken from you, and how con- 
tent would you be, with folded hands, waiting for the 
only boon in life that can confer on you happiness and 
activity, and an honorable position. I would like to see 
you tried. I have now and then seen one of the lords 
of creation confined within four walls from indisposition 
which was only temporary ; but he was not the exem- 
plification of contentment ! 

Here we were once more interrupted, and I did not 
again see my little friend till I had fairly put him in 
print, and trembled a little lest I had forfeited his 
friendship. 

" Now, what will you say to me ?" I asked, as soon 
as I met him, " for printing you and sending you all 
over the land ?" 

" Well," he said, " I should not care, only I am afraid 
my wife Eliza will feel bad when she knows I ever 
courted Sally Jane." 

" Perhaps she will never hear of it. I hope she will 



90 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

not, for I should feel sadly if I were to cause such a 
pang in a woman's heart, though I think it would have 
been better if you had told her yourself. I suppose in 
this 3^ou were like other men ; at least you tried to make 
her Relieve you never loved any lady but her. This is 
the way with the men.". 

" Oh, I said nothing about it, you see, because she 
might be afraid I was giving her only apiece of a heart, 
and then perhaps she would say she had rather not have 
any if she could not have a w^iole one." 

" But honesty is the best poHcy, always, and decep- 
tion-never. A true woman would not love a man the 
less, but perpaps the more, for having experienced a dis- 
appointment, if he would only frankly tell her. Now 
you will be always fearing that Eliza Ann wall hear of 
it, and you will not have a minute of peace." 

But he did not seem to be greatly troubled, and I 
parted with him scarcely expecting to ever hear from 
him more. Imagine my surprise, to receive not many 
weeks afterwards a special messenger, assuring me that 
" his wife Eliza did not care nothmg at all about it, be- 
cause he courted Sally Jane, and sent her love to me, 
and would like to have me make them a visit." 



%\t Swaliing |)fart. 



Oh I had dreamed of sadness, 
And thought I knew of pain; 

I had talked of madness 

And the fever's burnina: brain. 



t) 



I had wept and called it sorrow 

That bedewed my cheek with tears, 

While the smile of gay to-morrow 

Effaced those shadowy fears. 

(91) 



THE MYKTLE WREATH. 

I had yet to learn that anguish 
Could fill the yearning breast 

And the weary spirit languish 
Eor the ne'er returning rest. 

Tliat midnight's sombre shadows 

So heavily could roll, 
That the heart seemed ever beating 

The death-knell of the soul. 

And when its wasting vigils 
The mind no more could keep, 

It seemed that frowning demons 
"Were the guardians of sleep. 

And Oh, the dread awaking 

From those slumbers dark and cold. 
When the heart seems madly breaking 

To crumble with the mould ! 

AYhen bruised and sorrow laden 

It bleeds at every pore, 
With every heart-string broken 

And crushed the very core. 



THE BREAKING HEART. 93 

When e'en the gladsome morning 

No longer beams with light, 
And the sunbeams and the dew drops 

Seem wedded with the night. 

No more in dreams I revel, 

Nor fairy fancies know, 
But the spirit's silent moaning 

With its weary weight of woe. 



^ M0.rJr far Wimmn. 



NOT long ago I heard a celebrated Doctor of Divinity 
lecture upon " Woman," and if experience and ob- 
servation had not taught me better, I should have gone 
home thinking the earth was actually blessed with a 
company of angels. There was not an allusion to any 
real deficiency in the character, wants, or occupations 
of the gentle sex — they were unmitigated blessings. In 
moral qualities they were represented as far superior to 
man, and in some intellectual qualities, quite his equal ! 
In perception and judgment they excelled, but in inven- 

(94) 



A WUKI) FOR WOMAN. 95 

tion they were inferior. This is the point in his remarks 
to which I intended to come, and no farther, for, dear 
reader, I am giving an abstract of a learned lecturer, in 
order to elucidate my subject. 

But just as the good man had made this remark, a 
lady turned to me and said, *' Just think of all the bags 
of crochet and cucumber seeds, — the purses of knitting 
and netting, and knotting — the counterpanes pieced in 
diamonds, and squares, and semicircles, and quilted in 
ginger-bread, love-knots, and * herring-bone,' — of the 
divans, and ottomans, and the 'tete-a-tetes, all covered 
with block-work of satin and velvet, over which the brain 
has. puzzled days, and weeks, and months — ^just think of 
the devices in all manner of purple and fine linen — of 
the worsted work, with its infinite variety of roses and 
posies, — its dogs, and fawns, and cats; and then the 
laces and muslins, with the millions of invisible stitches, 
over which eyes have dimmed and fingers ached. 

What a variety of ^;»«^^er?2.9, and what a variety of 
forms for every article embroidered — to say nothing of 
dame Fashion's wonderful proofs of the development 
of this organ, presuming that Madame Fashion is in a 
majority of times, and seasons, and places, a woman. 
Look at the plates which adorn the Magazines, the mul- 
tiplicity of flounces, and frills, and furbelows. Then 
number the various departments of housewifery — bow 
are those eniploved w^ho study household good, " and 



96 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

good works in their husbands do promote ?" We might 
go on enumerating, but surely we have demonstrated 
that all the leisure hours of women are devoted to inven- 
tions. Some masculine critic will probably exclaim, 
that her powers are exerted on very trivial subjects, and 
the world is not much better for all those things. 
Most true it is, good sir, but who is to blame for all 
that ? When you permit her to step out of this insig- 
nificant sphere, perhaps she will shine as conspicuously 
in another and higher ! 

And I could prove, if I should try, that it is better 
to embroider than to do nothing ; and any art that ena- 
bles a w^oman to promote the tasteful arrangement and 
adorning of her house, with the time and skill which she 
can spend in no better way for ivmit of perrnission ! is 
useful. Costly and luxuriant furniture alone will not 
give an air of cozy comfort to a house. I have seen 
one converted into a little paradise with half the expense 
that was bestowed on another, which was after all but a 
miniature bedlam. 

So I hope she will go on improving her powers upon 
little things, so as to be prepared for greater ones when 
they come within her reach, but never on any occasion 
do I advise her to step out of her sphere to reach them ! 



Cl)Tidmas is €m\m^. 



C^i^HRISTMAS is conning," but it must be evident 
\j to all the children in the city, that Santa Claus 
does not come down the chimney in these days. His 
footsteps are not so stealthy as they were in days of 
yore. Heralds are proclaiming him at every corner, 
and thousands of fingers are busy in assisting him to 
fill his satchel with the gifts he intends to lavish. A 
nimble little sprite he is, and generous too, seldom leav- 
ing a home unvisited, yet I marvel at the profusion in 
his preparations, and think he must have provided more 

than he can dispose of, though he leave 

5 (97) 



98 THE MYRTLE WKEATH. 

A gift in every stocking leg, 

That liangs on crane, or hook, or peg. 

It has become the fashion to " give gifts," and as in 
most other cases, fr.shion has become so imperious, that 
it would be ahnost hke an act of proscription to refuse 
obedience to her decrees, and as in most other cases 
too, compulsion destroys half the pleasure. There are 
few gratifications more delightful than that of exchang- 
ing tokens of affection ; mementoes and souvenirs from 
those we love, with their thousand sweet associations 
clustering around them, keep alive fond memories and 
brighten dark hours, and diffuse a sunshine along life's 
pathway, hghteningthe heart of many a burden and hal- 
lowing it for many a sorrow. 

How precious is that lock of hair slightly tinged with 
grey, which was once smoothly plaited on a mother's 
brow. What wealth of riches or of diamonds would pur- 
chase the little golden curls that once fell with a profu- 
sion of ringlets over the shoulders of a little sister, 
whom we saw plucked like an opening bud, her rosy 
lips sealed by death ere they had scarcely begun to lisp 
the sweet accents of affection ? Who has not some relic 
of other days or early loves which he guards more care- 
fully than gold, and cherishes more than hid treasures ? 
What a world of memories, w^hich have long been still, 
come rushing up as we look upon a leaf or flower which 
is linked by some delicate tendril to the heart, und has 



CIUILSTMAS IS COMING. 99 

only to be breathed upon to awake into life and bloom 
with richer fresline.^s and beauty ! 

The chords of the soul are like harp strings whicli 
have only to be touched, in order to vibrate with a 
thousand melodies. And so sacred has ever seemed to 
me a gift, a token, that I shrink from the touch of one 
which custom only has bade to be offered, for it seems 
like trifling with things sacred, and tran^pling upon that 
which is holy and pure. This will sound very senti- 
mental to those who value presents as they do purchases, 
according to the amount of money they cost,— who sit 
down on Christmas and New Year's eve to recJwn vp 
the articles, and comment on the generosity or mean- 
ness of those whom they call friends. 

In the old countries, Christmas is the time-honored 
festival, and hallowed by associations, but in our own, 
the observance of it seems like something " got up," ra- 
ther than to have " come down.'' I hav^e no objec'tions 
to holydays, and would increase rather than diminish 
them. I have no objection to decorating Churches with 
evergreens, or preparing or.eating a good Christmas din- 
ner, and any occasion that calls home the scattered ones, 
and gathers together the members of a household, and 
strengthens family ties, must have more good in it than 
evil ; so I rejoice with others when " Christmas is com- 
ing," and join heartily in the good cheer it brings. I 
like to be commissioned by Santa Claus to filf little 



100 THE MYRTLE WIIEATH. 

stockings with nicknacks and to hear the shout and 
merry laugh from young glad voices. I love everything 
that gives to hfe healthful gladness, and beams with 
chastened brightness on the pathway of our earthly pil- 
grimage. And are not these resources every where 
around us ? Dark indeed must be the soul which is 
not expanded when gazing upon the myriad orbs in 
their cloudless splendor, upon the ocean in its grandeur, 
the mountain, the hill, and the valley, and the running 
stream. Clouded indeed must be his vision w4io dis- 
cerns only shadows in the sunbeams, and walks abroad 
only to press his feet upon thorns, who puts forth his 
hand to pluck llowers, and returns it full of nothing but 
weeds and thistles. 



S0lit;ira BJusiiip wpn MMt. 



HO"VV necessary is companionship to all living crea- 
tures. There is the horse, who has been neighing 
and whinnying all day in the absence of his companion, 
who shares wath him all his labors ; stands by him in 
the stable ; eats from the same crib, and gambols with 
him in the field. His tones are mournful and piteous to 
hear, w^hilst he w^anders to and fro, eagerly catching 
every sound from the road, and gazing with an eye, in 
W'hich sparkles the animation of intelligence, down the 

avenue w^hich will give him the first glimpse of his 

(lOO 



102 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

friend. How can joy be more plainly expressed than 
theirs when they meet — the note of welcome and the 
joyous bound, the look of love and the fond caress. 

There are some pretty kittens — how loving they are 
in their play ; if one is for a little time hid or absent, how 
sorrowful is her little playmate. How slyly she creeps 
about, peeping in into every nook and corner ; and how 
wildly she capers when she has discovered her. 

The good and patient cow, so stupid, as she is called, 
is still capable of feeling sadness, and mourns when left 
alone to such a degree that she becomes thin, and 
refuses to give us the rich foaming milk in abundance. 
Give her a companion to roam with her in the field, and 
crop the grass by her side and she grows cheerful and 
fat and generous again. 

There is Mrs. Goose with Mr. Gander and five chil- 
dren strutting b}^ her side. How plainlj^ she says " They 
are mine !" She waddles down to the brook, and know- 
ing that I am watching her, she enters the water, leav- 
ing her younglings to follow at their pleasure ; and 
words could not speak more plainly than her gait, and 
the proud bearing of her head as she ascends the oppo- 
site bank, without looking round to see if they are 
safe, " They are very precocious, and can take care of 
themselves. Don't you see how they swim ?" Oh, yes, 
Mrs. Goose, you are a genuine mother, and with so 
honorable a position, so well sustained, you should not 



[SOLITARY MUSINGS UPON SOLITUDE. 103 

be the butt of ridicule for the thoughtless world. I 
wonder how it came about that you are never anything 
but a goose after all. Your days of usefulness are well 
nigh ended — w^e no longer need those glossy quills to 
celebrate your praises nor our own ! Nor that soft down 
to pillow our weary heads — we have learned better than 
to depend on you for any comfort or luxury ; so perhaps 
you will be elevated to a higher rank. None but the 
starving would wish to eat you, so I see not why you 
should not have a title of nobility, a coat of arms, and 
your husband a ducal crown ! 

Here is this good dog, the faithful New^foundland. 
One day he was suspected of invading the sheep fold 
with hostile intentions ; he saw our looks of censure, and 
heard us talk of death to the evil-doer, whoever he might 
be, and he left us, to return no more till we sought him 
wdth assurance of trust and belief in his innocence. As 
is often the case in this world, a little trouble and 
humiliation has purchased for him a great renown; and 
we are careful to remember that it is not " little pitchers 
alone that have ears." But how came he to understand 
our conversation ? His fear and trembling were not 
the effect of conscious guilt, for the offence was not his, 
as we afterwards proved. Was it di'ead of the pains 
of death ? How could he know aught of suffering ? Was 
it regret at parting with life merelj^, and being separa- 
ted from those to whom he was attached, and from all 



104 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

the pleasures of animal existence? Or did he shudder 
at the thought of unkindness from the hand that had 
fed him, and from those whom he had so faithfully 
guarded from danger in the silent watches of the night? 

It was all owing to instinct, the Philosopher says. 
He is a dog, whatever he may do ! Still I believe him 
capable of a very high kind of happiness, and animated 
with some of the best feelings of the human soul. 
Gratitude is one of the noblest of our emotions, and 
surely he is ever expressing this, and expressing, too, a 
love which is concentrated upon a few and more firmly 
links him to one. 

What joyous delight he manifests at the return of 
the absent ! What fidelity in guarding us from evil ; 
so entirely do we trust him that we never fear he will 
slumber at his post ; and that he will betray us ! who 
would be guilty of such a suspicion ? 

When I ramble in the fields, how plainly does he 
express his interest in all that I do — looking among the 
flowers for those I pluck — bringing me a leaf or twig to 
win a gentle pat or smile. It is true that there are 
many undisputed possessors ■ of hearts, who do not 
understand so well how to make the hearts of others 
throb with gladness. 

How funny the hens look hopping up stairs ! But 
who ever thought of being loved by a hen. We love 
the little chickens, they are so cunning ; but when they 



SOLITARY MUSINGS UPON SOLITUDE. 1 05 

are grown up, they are not prett}^, and though they are 
domestic, they are not affectionate. I wonder if they 
love one another ? Yet it would be lonely indeed with- 
out them — a desolation it would create about the farm- 
house, to silence the cut cut, cada-er cut^ and cock-a 
doodle doo. 

There is grandpa, with a quart measure full of oats, 
and they no sooner see him than from tree, and scaffold, 
and woodpile, and picket, they run, waddle and scram- 
ble for the oats he scatters. He really loves them, but 
I do not think they would love him were it not for the 
oats. But they like a home, and a nice place to roost, 
and they " lay two eggs a day," Sundays and all ; and 
after having spent a year in the city, where they make 
custards of corn starch, we appreciate hens more than 
ever. 

But even they do not like to be alone. Who would 
think of keeping one solitary hen ? In the garden, or 
orchard, wiierever they are picking Avorms and seeds, 
there are always two or three. They like companion- 
ship, but they are not generous. How each runs, when 
she finds a good bit, to avoid sharing it with her com- 
panions. 

I wonder how it came to be so f\ishionable to talk of 
the blessings of solitade, when it is so plainly written, 
not only in His book, by His own hand, but in all His 
works, " It is not good to be alone." 



llu barton iMmxt 



I HAVE watcVied them, I have cherished 
Through the early budding spring, 

'Till the warmer breath of summer 
Brought their perfect blossoming. 

The modest peeping violet, 

The snowy daffodil ; 

The brightly glowing buttercup 

That grows beside the hill. 

(106) 



MY GARDEN FLOWErvS. 107 

The variegated roses, 

The lilies in their pride ; 
The gently loving creeper 

Which climbeth at their side. 

And the gay and queenly dahlia, 

In royal purple "drest, 
Adorned with badge imperial, 

And golden-mounted crest. 

I have talked to them in whispers— 

1 have told them every thought, 
'Till they seem with life and motion, 

"With love and friendship fraught. 

So fondly I have cherished them, 

I weep to see them fade, 
And sigh that aught should wither 

In such lovelin'ess arrayed. 

But the winter days are coming ; 

It is rumored on the blast — 
The yellow leaves are scattered '* 

As it rudely rushes past. 



108 THE MYETLE WREATH. 

The hoary frost of Autumn 
Has blighted every stem, 

And on every twig and leaflet 
Is a glittering icy gem. 

So the hopes that dawn the brightest 
Are the first to flee away — 

So the hearts that beat the lightest 
Are the soonest to decay. 

And I have learned that beauty, 
Wherever it may bloom, 

Is but a fragile blossom 
That is ripening for the tomb. 



%m P't|^ts— S|e Mu m)i % %xnt 



^ W A ND here I must stay cooped up from morning 

jGL till night, without a breath of fresh air, or any 

healthy exercise watching over this child. How I hate 

it, I was not born for such drudgery. I was made for 

something better 1" 

These were the words of a mother as she sat by the 

cradle of a moaning infant. How many mothers will 

believe me — will believe it possible, that days and nights 

of weariness and watching, of self denial and sacrifice 

could force such words fi*om a mother's lips ? Yes, and 

(109) 



110 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

the little creature over whom every day and hourshefret- 
ted, and wished in its grave, was her daughter and her 
only; a fair and beautiful child, wasted with sickness, 
and pining for the care a fond mother only can bestow. 
It could not tell its pain, but all the day it uttered a 
moaning sound, which was pitiful to hear, and which 
'must have struck painfully on any human heart. 

See its tiny fingers so long and thin — the arms, the 
bones of which have never hardened, because its short 
life has been all suffering ; the temples are hollow, and 
the cheeks have lost their plumpness ; it tries to turn its 
Uttle body and writhes with pain, and the moan is deeper. 
"What woman with a woman's heart does not invol- 
untarily stretch forth her arms to clasp the little one and 
fold it to her bosom, and yet the mother, sits by and 
MOCKS ITS WAILING ! My blood curdles in my veins, as 
I listen, and my pen is palsied at the thought ! 

What was she ? A coarse brutal woman such as we 
find in hovels and heathen lands ? No, less than four 
years ago she was a belle, and is still a beauty ! Her 
dress is brocade and her laces the purest mechlin ; she 
is graceful as a fairy, — brilHant and fascinating, and 
when in her father's house, surrounded by everything to 
minister to her taste and gratify her wants, she was 
called amiable and lovely ! She was as many are — 
*' very good till she was tried." 

And what is it that she calls " doing something better.'* 



THE TWO MOTHERS. 1 1 1 

than nursing her infant and hushing it to slumber? 
What can exceed in her mind the importance of a 
mother's holy duties? What can be to her sweeter 
than to pour out her love upon the child of her bosom, 
to be rewarded wath its returning smile and merry 
prattle ? It is nothing more than the morning prome- 
nade and the evening soiree. Her husband is sitting by, 
but he never shared any portion of her affection ; when 
she married it was not to find a home for her heart ; 
the desire for admiration is not a less craving appetite 
than when she danced and smiled with the hope of 
attracting lovers. Excitement is the only food which 
satisfies, and the restraints of conjugal and maternal 
duties are insupportable to her. 

" She hates them ; she was made for something 
better !" 



" Will he not look cunning in his little new frock, and 
white apron — see I have trimmed the sleeves with vel- 
vet — and these buttons up and down the waist — and he 
has a little hat with a bright ribbon, don't you think he 
will look nice ?" 

I looked up in the face of the fond mother, as she 
turned the articles round and round to exhibit them, her 
countenance glowing with that beautiful pride which a 
happy mother always feels, and gazed in wonder, for 



112 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

though he was a noble boy, he was one for whose birth 
and parentage she must blush as long as she lived ! 

" You had rather get something pretty for him than 
for yourself I suppose," said I. 

** Oh yes, I do not care for myself at all, I do not care 
a bit whether I have anything or not, if I can only get 
something nice for Willie. And will he not look 
pretty," she began again, " you can't think how he has 
grown lately : he begins to say mamma, and he plays 
so pretty with his horse and blocks. Oh, and he is so 
loving, so glad to see me when I go to see him." 

She had been entreated to give him up, that he might 
never know his unfortunate birth, and that her own 
humiliation might be forgotten. 

" You do not intend to part with him," I said. " No, 
oh, no, how can I part with him ? He clings to me and 
loves me so." 

My question recalled the bitterness of his lot, and her 
own, if they remained together, and the crinison flush 
suffused her face, and the long dark eyelash fell upon 
her cheek, while the scalding tears stole down, and 
dropped upon the frock and pinafore which she had fin- 
ished with so much care. 

I repented the remark, which added a single pang to 
lier already broken heart, for hers had been the greatest 
wronir I had ever known a deceived and outraged 
woman called upon to endure. I tried to soothe her by 



THE TWO MOTHERS. 1 J 3 

reverting to the pretty things, and her pretty baby, and 
her face brightened again, though it was never without 
the dark shadow, which betrayed the secret sorrow. 

She was a servant — and all the wages of a month, 
except one dollar, she paid for the board of her child. 
This — just a sixth part of what she received — was all 
she had to clothe herself and him, and on him, of course 
it was mostly spent. In two months she had saved 
enough to buy the bright red frock and hat and shoes, 
with which she had proudly decked him, and never had 
I seen her look so pleased and happy, as when she 
brought him in that I might see " what a handsome boy 
he was.' 

" I cut the frock all myself," she began, " does it not 
fit nice; and I gave two shillings for the shoes, and 
eighteen pence a yard for the frock — I could not get 
anything that was fit for him at all, for less — the ribbon 
on his hat was a shilling a yard, but doesn't he look 
pretty ? and see I got him a rattle too, he hkes it." Then 
she smothered him with kisses and pressed him closer 
and closer to her bosom. 

All the relaxation from toil or amusement which she 
asked was to be permitted to go once a day to spend a 
half hour with Jamy. How faithfully she worked; 
how like a very martyr she bore confinement, depriva- 
tion and toil, that Jamy might not know want — and 
that " he might look like other children^'' by which she 



114 THE MYRTLE WREATH 

meant the children of the rich. There was no 8elf- 
denial that she did not consider sweet, if it purchased 
him a moment's gratification ; and the humiHation was 
outweighed by the holy love — " the deep, strong, death- 
less love," with which her bosom was filled, which she 
could pour out upon her child — upon Jamy her darling 
boy. 

She who mocked her dying infant's wail, would have 
thought her onty fit to be trampled in the street — " a 
mother and not a wife ! what contempt was sufficient 
for her — no matter what might be the wronsr. 

Which was the true woman — which mother the false 
and which the true I 



Siteara Wlmm. 



IT may seem superfluous to devote a line, or moment 
of time, to the vindication of literary women, when 
they are so successfully vindicating themselves — M'hen 
they are so greatly honored and universally respected. 
But there are a great many women who are not guilty 
of dabbling in literature in any way, who are vastly 
concerned for the reputation of their sisters of the press, 
and more concerned for the well-being of their husbands 
and ftimilies. There is scarcely a day that we do not 
hear some unjust remark, or uncharitable allusion to 

(115) 



116 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

one who has lately become so world renowned in the 
empire of letters. " She neglects her family." Her 
children receive from her no attention." " Her house- 
hold affairs are left entirely to others." " She is una- 
miable as wife, and mother, and friend," &c.,&c. Every 
one of which charges I know to be false. I have 
been often in her house, and never saw it otherwise than 
orderly. I have seen and talked with her children, and 
often thought their intellectual and moral training 
was of the highest order, and that it was seldom 
parents so prayerfully and attentively studied, and so 
thoroughly understood the character of their children. 

No woman who is a good housewife, in the highest 
sense of the term, need spend all her time in household 
duties. The more systematic she is, and thoroughly 
acquainted with her profession, the more time she may 
redeem for other pursuits. No woman should be com- 
pelled to toil from early morning till late at night in the 
nursery, kitchen, or at the needle, though the bent forms 
sallow faces, and dejected spirits, we meet at every step, 
show how many do. 

There is no profession which so absolutely requires a 
well-balanced mind and high degree of cultivation in 
order to excel as housewifery, and there are very few 
women even in our land who have attained to perfec- 
tion. That the poor are so miserably poor and remain 
so, is, in a great proportion of cases, owing to the igno- 



LITEIiAKY WOMEN. I J 7 

ranee and inefficiency of women. That enterprising 
business men so often fail, is owing to the extravagance 
of their wives and daughters, and extravagance is often 
owing entirely to ignorance. A few literary women 
have been slatterns who would have just as surely been 
slatterns had they never seen a book or pen, and infinitely 
more useless and disagreeable ! 

But the slatterns who could not read or hold a pen, 
have not been counted, though it is conceded by most 
matrons that our emigrant servants are not the most 
learned, tidy, or the most expert I But suppose that 
literary and cultivated women must necessarily devote 
the time to books which should be devoted to the " weigh- 
tier matters," which must certainly be deemed the most 
imperative and important, if they have assumed the 
responsibilities of wives, mothers, nurses, &c. Are the 
husbands, and children, and puddings, which are neg- 
lected for books, in any worse condition than those neg- 
lected for theatres, balls, operas, or tattling, slander and 
gossip ? The proportion of learned ladies, is as yet very 
small in comparison to the whole, and there is a goodly 
prospect that it will be for a long time to come, while 
the fashionable women are a host, and their employ- 
ments are no difierent now from what they were when 
Addison described them. 

Their toilet is their great scene of business, and the 
rightadjustingof their hair, the principal employment 



.118 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

of their lives ; the sorting of a suit of ribbons is recl^oned 
a very good morning's work, and if they make an excur- 
sion to a mercer's or a toy-shop, so great a fatigue makes 
them unfit for anything else all the day after. Their 
more serious occupations are sewing and embroidery; 
and their greatest drudgery the preparation of jellies 
and sweet-meats. '' One infaUible resource in that day, 
as in this, was shopping." And then, as now, their 
overflowing affections were lavished on monkeys, lap- 
dogs and parrots. 

There is a certain " knack of doing things," which 
is as much a gift as speaking of tongues, or wTit- 
ing poetry, and we have seen young ladies try most per- 
severingly for years and never learn to bake, or wield a 
dishcloth, or broom, with grace or dexterity. Do not 
laugh at the idea of grace in such matters, for sewing, 
knitting, and sweeping, if done properly, are done grace- 
fully, and are done w'ell by some in half the time that 
others are doins: them ill. 



^ §r0tl]er's S0to M)i irEtituk 



^ f IT IFE is real, life is earnest." Oh for something 
I i to be in earnest about, is the unspoken thought 
of every woman's heart. " Oh for something fully to 
engage my mind, my energies. I feel within me the 
consciousnes of power, but where shall I exert it?" 

Her only " proper sphere," is in performing the gen- 
tle offices of affection. To go out of it is to forfeit her 
title to respect and destroy her influence. To be 
mother, daughter, wife and sister, should limit her 

ambition and when she can be neither of these wliat 

(119) 



120 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

shall she do ? Observation teaches her that according 
to the laws of nature, one tie will probably be broken in 
early hfe, and though a little while she may be a minister- 
in*^ angel around a parent's couch, death will deprive 
her of this sweet oflBce, and leave her alone in a deso- 
late home. She has brothers, but they have gone forth 
to seek their fortunes in the world. Duty does not bid 
them sacrifice the hope of honor or the opportunities of 
wealth, to smooth a parent's dying couch or cheer a 
sister's lonely path. They form new ties which almost 
surely sever those which bind them to the hearts which 
shared the joys and sorrows of their childhood. The 
sister, however deep, and pure, and constant may have 
been her love, is often, too often forgotten in the midst 
of the happy circle they gather around them in a new 
home. 

How impressively these thoughts returned to me as I 
remembered the humble cottage where a mother and 
daughter dwelt — the widow and the orphan. 

The son and brother was their idol ; for him they 
toiled and sacrificed to procure the means of education, 
to clothe him as others were clad, and looked forward 
with confidence to the day when success should crown 
his labors and they should be rewarded by an increase 
of affection and a home in his household. 

He received the first honors of school and college, 
and entered upon the duties of a lucrative profession. 



A brother's love and gratitude. 121 

He married an accomplished woman of fashion, who 
liked not to associate with the inmates of his lowly home, 
and succeeded in ahenating his affections from those who 
had never had a thought in life but for him, and in a lit- 
tle time as far as any manifestation of interest was visi- 
ble, they were entirely forgotten. He was blessed with 
prosperity, and children grew up around him. He was 
surrounded by everything rich and costly in furniture 
and apparel, and honors clustered upon his head, but, 
his heart was hardened. 

Still, in that little cottage might be seen every morn- 
ing and evening, the aged mother on her bended 
knees, pouring out her prayer to God, for her prodigal 
son. All day by the window, over which chmbed the 
rose and the honeys 'ickle her hands had trained, might 
be seen the sister toiling at her needle, to earn the pit- 
tance which supplied them with their daily bread. She 
was beautiful beyond the ordinary beauty of woman, 
and was often tempted to give her hand without her 
heart, when it promised her a home and competence, but 
she trembled as she thought of the change which had 
been wrought in the heart which for a quarter of a cen- 
tury had beat for her alone ; on her had been lavished 
its affection, and wdth her he had promised to share the 
weal and woe of life, and now he seemed turned to 
stone. 

A poetic feature in the smiling landscape was that 



122 THE MYRTLE wri<:atii. 

lowly cottage, with its clambering roses, and trellised 
vines and little garden, where blossomed in profusion all 
the flowers of early spring, and luxuriant summer and 
sober autumn. But still more beautiful was the picture 
within, where the tottering steps of age were supported 
by the fair form which ministered to every want with 
the quick perception and prompt energy of aflfection. 
He who should have comforted them, left them to the 
chilling blight of neglect, but want never visited their 
cheerful abode. Friendship took them under her brood- 
ing wing, and w^atched over them with her fostering 
care. 

But soon death came and removed the aged pilgrim 
to her rest beyond the grave ; and gladly, even now, 
would the sister have become an inmate of her brother's 
home. She w-ould have loved his children and intro- 
duced an air of comfort where fashion ^had so long 
usurped dominion, but her presence would have been a 
rebuke to her heartless votaries, which they cared not 
to meet, so she was left to her desolation and her hum- 
ble toil. Their cast off and useless drapery would have 
clothed her, but they preferred to see it accumulate and 
decay. The cottage was sold and soon shorn of its 
beauty; her heart had no longer there a resting place, 
and like the flowers she had cherished, it withered as 
her hopes were crushed. 



A BROTHER S LOVE AND GRATITUDE. 123 

" Her lot is on yon silent grave to weep, 

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, 

And sumlcss riches from affection's deep, 

To pour on broken reeds a wasted shower, 

And to make idols and to find them clay. 

And to bewail that worship — therefore pray. 

Her lot is on you, to be found untired, 

"Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 

With a pale cheek and yet a brow inspired. 

And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain, 

JMeeekly to bear with wrong and cheer decay, 

And oh ! to love through all things — therefore pray." 

" To love through all things !" and what shall those 
love, with the strength of woman's affection, who have 
no kindred and no home. They have ceased to be 
daughters — death has severed the tie which bound them 
to the authors of their existence. They are not mothers 
— Providence has denied them this holy relationship. 
They are not wives — but is the heart to be despised 
which is too pure to be sacrificed on the altar of ambition 
— a shrine too sacred to admit the motives of the fash- 
ionable and the worldling ? There is only one anchor for 
her soul — the Christian's faith. The future is the beacon 
which guides her on, the star of hope, the only one w^hich 
illumines her gloomy sky ; and on this bright star are 
fixed the eyes of thousands of her sister spirits to 
whom this life may never be an " earnest" one ; for the 



124 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

shrinking fear tliey have of incurring censure, is barrier 
enough to keep them within the precincts so often pre- 
scribed, and there they are deprived of objects of inter- 
est requiring a single exertion. They are pecuUarly fit- 
ted for love and its delightful offices, but to them has not 
been given the choice of any object on w^hich to lavish 
their devotion ; and when bowed with sorrow or oppres- 
sed with loneliness, the world seems to think their only 
womanly employment to be endurance and Christian 
resignation ! 



|tStttle«IjttoSptot!j%!u. 



n^HAT little boy, did you ever see one so lovely ? 
_L " Oh yes," exclaim a hundred mothers, " can he be 
more beautiful than mine— does his hair curl more 
sweetly— is his form more round, or his cheek more 

rosy ?" 

Oh, I did not say this little boy was beautiful; 

his hair does not curl at all, but lies in silken tresses on 

his brow ; the blue veins twine round like silver threads 

upon the temple— the eye is closed, and the long dark 

lash rests heavily on the delicate cheek ; the little hand 

(125) 



126 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

is nestling beneath the chin, and the breath betrays a 
restless slumber, which makes me tremble, for it seems 
to me an angel is hovering over him ready to bear him 
to the spirit land. 

His is a beauty of the soul — I am sitting by his crib, 
and see the eyes compress to stifle a groan which one 
less brave would freely utter ; I see those little muscles 
contact with pain, and yet no sound escapes, except 
those words, so natural and so sweet from childish lips, 
" mamma, mamma." 

The dark eye so rich and full, is lighted with mo*re 
than earthly brightness, and now lovingly he clasps his 
little arms around my neck, as if it w^ere only a little 
while, ere they would take the form of wings and soar 
away where angel children dwell. 

Ah, they are not alone the brave who die upon the 
battle field — nor they alone the victors, who wear the 
laurel crown. 

" A little child shall teach them," — meekly to bear 
with suffering or with wrong, and ask no eye to pit}", 
and no voice to soothe ; to struggle when there are none 
to herald praises is the truest martyr glory. And every 
day I see a tiny fragile form bear up — not with manly 
strength, but with a ransomed spirit's bravery. The 
pain with which some giant frames would sink, he 
suffers not to prostrate him. It wastes that little form, 
we see it day by day, but still those feet go patting 



A LITTLE CHILD SHALL TEACH THEM. 127 

round — the voice is soft and low, but richer in its tone 
and sweeter than music in our ears. 

The cheek has lost its roundness, and the dimpled face 
its cherub beauty — he smiles, but it is not childhood's 
sunny smile — it seems to me a beam from heaven. 

And soon he will be there — a bud, oh no, a full blown 
flower. God gave him, and in three short summers has 
perfected him to a spiritual beauty which is not oft at- 
tained in three score years and ten. He is worthy now 
to " sing the song of Moses and the Lamb," and soon 
will join the choir around the great white throne, and 
there will be to welcome us, the beauteous angkl boy. 



®lt itart. 



Tis like the sweet ^olian 

With which the zephyrs play ; 

"With every new emotion, 
How light! 3^ will it sway ! 

Of its rich and gushing music, 

The soul will never tire ; 

"While Joy with rosy finders, 

Sweeps o'er its trembling lyre. 
(128) 



THE HEART. 129 

But, oh ! the thrill iog rapture, 

When love with dewy wings, 
Awakes the sleeping goddess. 

Who tunes the golden strings. 



I hear it vibrate quickly, 

Like the rustling autumn leaf, 

Then slowly on the night-wind 
Comes the solemn note of Grief 



I bend my ear to listen, 

And catch a sweeter strain ; 

Yes, Hope, with magic whisper. 
The chords hath touched again. 



But hark ! a mournful melody 

Is floating on the breeze ; 
'Tis like the breath of evening 

Through the solemn c^^press trees. 

I look ; the lyre is trembling, 
And doubt is brooding there ; 

The plaintive song grows sadder, 
'Tis the wailing of Despair ! 



130 THE MYHTLE WilEATPI. 

In the stilly hour of midnight, 
A voice has lingered near — 

'Twiis like the hiss of viper 
To the maiden's trusting ear. 



A strange and startling wild not© 
Is echoed through the air — 

The shapeless form of Terror 
Is rushins: from her lair. 



I hear a wail of madness — 

The harp is tempest riven, 
And never more will answer 
To the gentle sighs of even. 

'Tis broken, 3'et I linger, 

Some favorite strain to hear ; 
And turn to hide the anouish — 

o 

To wipe the burning tear. 

But the hideous form of Triumph 
Is there with leaden wings, 

Exulting in the music 

Of the torn and shattered str 



lntr0kdi0M. 



WHO has not " felt as if he should go into fits "— 
turned red and white, hot and cold — looked this 
way and that way and every other way, while under 
the necessity of enduring an introductionj with no possi- 
bility of shortening it, hastening it, or preventing it. 

It is quite contrary to etiquette to bow or speak, and 
especiall}^ to talk, to a person with whom you have not 
been "made acquainted." — But "circumstances alter 
cases," the grammar used to say, and if by any unfortu- 
nate train of events, you have been compelled to be 
sociable with a stranger for an hour or two, long enough 

(131) 



132 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

to feel at ease, what will more fully destroy your con- 
ceit, than the entrance of one who is " wed to etiquette" 
and cannot forego the pleasure of " making you 
acquainted." You are immediately thrown back to the 
awkwardness of another beginning, and must invent a 
new remark on the weather, w^hich only multiplies your 
blushes, and increases your confusion till you feel that 
an introduction has made you worse than strangers. 

It is sufficient for any ordinary self command to stand 
vis a vis with one whom you have never met before, 
while a third person goes through the formula of " Mr. 
Somebody, allows me to give myself the pleasure or do 
myself the honor to make you acquainted with Mr. 
Somebody else," at the end of which you are expected 
to and do respond, " I am happy to see you well, sir," 
though you are in your heart wishing him and all the 
world at the bottom of the sea. I would like to see the 
man or w^oman who could pass through such an ordeal 
with grace or dignity. 

But the climax of introduction, I witnessed when a 
young lady wished to make known to her family, a gen- 
tleman wdth whom she had become acquainted in the 
city, and in whom she was particularly interested, and 
of whom they had only heard. He entered the spacious 
drawing room, and she arose and placed herself at liis 
side, saying, " Pa, this is Mr. Bush, Mr. Bush this is Pa \ 
Ma this is Mr. Bush, Mr. Bush, this is Ma. Brother 



INTRODUCTIONS. 133 

Jonathan, this is Mr. Bush, Mr. Bush this is Brother 
Jonathan," &c., &c., till every person in the room was 
distinctly informed that this "was Mr. Bush." I cer- 
tainly thought an earthquake would be a most delight- 
ful interruption to such a scene. 

There are an abundance of books and of teachers 
•who by the hving voice " instruct boys and girls how to 
behave," as well as how to do various other things, and 
I cannot tell whether the fault is in the teachers or in 
the memories of the pupils, that the behaving is so 
awkwardly done. 

I once sat spectator while a gentleman introduced 
his friend to a circle of eight or ten persons, with all of 
whom he shook hands, reiterating each time, " very glad 
to see you, are you pretty hearty to-day ? happy to see 
you, are you pretty hearty to-day ?" till every one in the 
room was in convulsions. 

The mention of the names of those who are unac- 
quainted, as quickly as is compatible with distinctness, 
is all that is necessary on ordinary occasions, and a 
slight repetition by those who are introduced, saves all 
the trouble of wishing people well or hearty ; and I am 
sure would prevent many an ague fit. 



lirst |nipss50ns ipii % Pssissipi, 



I AM still on the waters, for our boat is old and huu- 
vy laden, and we are moving slowly ; but though it 
is in some respects a monotonous life, I am not weary 
of It. The days have been bright and cloudless, and 
so warm that we could sit on deck any length of time 
with perfect comfort, and I have often shared the wheel- 
house with the old pilot long into the night, for the pri- 
vilege of looking abroad upon this fair land, and those 
dark waters when the moon shed upon them her silvery 
light. How often I look up to her, always so calm, and 

(134) 



FIRST IMPRESSIONS UPON THE MISSISSIPPI. 135 

pure, and beautiful, and bright, and think what else in all 
the wide creation is so loved and welcomed as her smile. 
Of all things else we are prone to weary. The sun seems 
necessary to our existence — he is brilliant and dazzling, 
and glorious, as he rolls on his fiery way — we admire 
him and praise him, but who ever thought of loving 
aught so splendid. We love the flowers, but they only 
bloom for a little season, then fade and die. But the 
moon, the gentle moon, who ever gazed on her quiet 
loveliness, and wearied and wished for her to wane ? 

And now, when I am far away as I think she is still 
looking upon the mountains and the little streams, that 
wind like silver threads through the valleys, in that 
cherished land, it is with more than fondness that 
I gaze. 

I love to send my fancy roaming 
Far away o'er hill and dell, 

And think that thou art fondly smiling 
On the friends I love so well. 

To think thy beauteous robe is mantling 
• Cottage roof and gilded dome, 
And thou with gentle radiance lighting. 
Sculptured hall and mountain home ! 

"What a different land is this. Our mountains give 
us an idea of grandeur with sublimity, but never before 
did I have an idea of vastness — of expanse, of illimitable 



136 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

space. With what new and strange sensations I stood 
upon the deck and witnessed the meeting of these mighty 
waters, — the Ohio and the Mississippi. Where are the 
fountains from which they flow ? Centuries have passed 
awa}^ and still they are rolling on, and on, and on ! I had 
sailed the whole length of the Ohio, one of the great tri- 
butaries of the Father of waters, and had never for a mo- 
ment ceased to wonder, but now I am on the river of 
rivers, and can scarcely control my enthusiasm as my 
thoughts wander far away to the north and trace the 
thousands and thousands of miles it must traverse, as it 
goes widening, and deepening, and sw^elling, so ma- 
jestic, so conscious of its power ere it pours its dark 
flood over the bosom of the sea. 



^t St0rj| a %\imm\\s %mm UX td i\l\mi$ itto. 



• •/^H ! will you not let me rest here one night ? I 
\J have not where to lay my head." 
If you will go with me up town, dear reader, I will 
point you to an elegant mansion, in which once dwelt a 
family reared in all the luxury which wealth can pur- 
chase and indulgence lavish. There dwelt an only 
daughter ; I knew her in her pride and beauty, and 
have seen her the envied among her young companions ; 
and how many have I watched, as they basked delighted 

in the sunshine of her smile. 

(137) 



138 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

1 knew him, too, who was lord of that stately maih 
sion, and the proud scorner of the humble ; who hesitated 
not to trample upon the lowly, and — aye, shall I say it ? 
— could look all around him and see the wreck of crushed 
and broken and bleeding hearts — the victims of his 
perjury — crying to him for justice and for mercy, with- 
out a shudder or a pang. 

Very carefully did he guard his idol, that neither 
tempter nor destroyer should come nigh unto her or 
whisper flatteries in her ear ; and very emphatically did 
he make it understood that none but the rich should sue 
for her hand. No toil had ever stained those rosy fin- 
gers ; not a dream had that fair young girl that change 
could ever come to her. She had never had a glimpse 
of poverty ; and never even heard of wretchedness. In 
an evil hour the father was smitten by the pestilence, 
which is no respecter of the proud or the high-born, 
and the widow and the orphan stood palsied by the 
blow. They had lived upon the gains accumulated by 
fraud, and now came the terrible tribulation — they were 
in their turn defrauded. 

Those whom they had called friends vanished like 
chaff before the wind, and there they stood alone! 
Alone in this great City, where a little while ago they 
received the homage of thousands, and their patronage 
was courted as the certain passport to distinction. 

They shrunk from labor as from contamination and 



THE STORY A THOUSAND TIMES TOLD. ] 39 

yet they tried to toil. But there was one hope to which 
they clung. Beauty often purchases wealth, and Isabel 
was beautiful. There were none to guard her now ; and, 
alas! for those mysterious words uttered by Him in 
whom is all wisdom, " The sins of the father shall be vis- 
ited upon the children even to the third and fourth ge- 
neration. Was it for the innocent he had betrayed and 
hurled to infamy, that his child was left to the tender 
mercies of the heartless seducer ? Oh, ye fathers and 
husbands ! would that it were burnt into your hearts 
and branded upon your foreheads, if not otherwise ye 
can be made to remember that poverty, and guilt, and 
shame may thus descend to the pure, and lovely, 
and trusting, to whom you have given life, and whom 
you would rather consign in the bloom of life and 
health and beauty, to the worm and the winding-sheet, 
than see them fall into just such hands as yours ! 

I need not dwell on the sequel. He who sought her 
talked of love, of honor and truth, and she who listened, 
loved, and trusted, and fell. The mother is made 
frantic by this accumulation of misery ; and the daugh- 
ter you might have seen only one week ago, ringing 
at that same door where she stood in the day of her 
prosperity to bow and smile and utter welcomes, asking 
for *' where to lay her head." 

She was spurned with contempt, and fell staggering 
to the pavement ; and this was uttered by those who saw 



140 THE MYKTLE WREATH. 

her with a smile of triumph, " They had no pity — it was 
good enough for such as she !" 

Ah, yes; and I might go on with my story, and tell 
of the brother of those who could talk in thoughtless 
raillery of that young, fallen creature, and with truth 
represent him as polluting the very air they breathe. 
A low, vulgar, heartless, unprincipled, gambling debau- 
chee. But what of that ? — he is a man, and may go 
forth with impunity, trampling the life-blood from out 
young hearts. 

It does not procure for him the word of scorn or 
look of contempt ;, bright eyes and ruby lips smile as 
graciously upon him, and he is admitted to be their 
" attendant" and " protector," with as much confidence 
as if he loved virtue and respected innocence. 

He looks from the window, and sees that she, who 
has in her ignorance come to his very door for shelter 
and for bread, is she who, a few weeks ago, clung to 
him in agony, praying that he would " save her ! save 
her 1" and whom he flung back with curses. He turns 
pale, to be sure, as his hollow laugh echoes through 
those gorgeous saloons, and he mutters anathemas 
against " the woman who should dare thus to insult his 
sisters in his mother's house ;" but the wail of broken 
hearts has too often sounded in his ears, to bid him 
long tremble at a sight hke this. 

They soon issue forth in silks, and satins, and velvets, 



THE STORY A THOUSAND TIMES TOLD. 141 

just as she was once clad, and in a few moments are 
mingling with the gay crowd at the ball and opera, and 
she is forgotten. 

But whither has she fled ? Not again did sne rmg 
at the door of the rich, and ask for bread of those whose 
hands are full, and who yet withhold from the starving. 
She w^ent where she l^new she would not be repulsed ; 
she laid herself down, not in the grave — that would 
have been too sweet a resting-place — but in one of those 
worse than charnel-houses, wliose doors are ever open 
to " such as these." 

But God, though He chastened, did not forget. A 
pitying eye traced her to this last refuge of the despair- 
ing, and a friendly hand was stretched forth to snatch 
her from a worse than murderer's doom ; and Heaven 
be praised that now even she may not only be saved, 
but restored, and by all those whose respect is worth 
having, respected, victim though she be of perjury, 
wrong, and falsehood ! And the time is coming — may 
it come speedily ! — when the oppressor shall wear the 
mark of shame and degradation, and the oppressed lift 
up their eyes in rejoicing; for justice is no longer a 
stranoer in the Earth. 



|i Qmttx m f 0lj.e. 



IF I were to entitle this article Fanny Ford, or Mary 
Malcolm, I might introduce as much sentiment as I 
pleased — make my heroines as romantic, and falling in 
love as interesting and proper as any thing else human 
beings are in the habit of doing, and with few excep- 
tions my readers would not be at all shocked, and most 
of them would be well pleased. 

There are few people, notwithstanding the cynical 
professions of some, and the- unblushing falsehoods of 
others, who are not interested in love stories. It is a 

(142) 



A CHAPTER ON LOVE. 143 

pity tliat luve sliould ever have become so degraded, 
that any should be unwihing to own its power, or con- 
fess its individual influence. Is it not strange that the 
holiest and loftiest principle of our nature should be so 
derided, and so lowered, that truth should shrink from 
approaching it, and frankness be banished from its 
presence ? 

Next to love, music has been most proscribed. 

To conquer and to slay have ahvays been the manly 
occupations, and among Christian people this sentiment 
is still echoed, while the Bible assures us that love and 
praise constitute the bliss of Heaven. On almost every 
page the happiness of the Christian and the joy of Para- 
dise are illustrated by allusions to the bride, her beauty 
and her devotion. But in these days of exquisiteness, 
love must be sung only in poetry, and pictured only in 
novels, and the world is reaping the fruit of such teach- 
ings. To change the heart or root out its affections is 
impossible, for God hath made it, and his laws are 
immutable. Some will say that the degradation of 
what was originally so pure is owing to the influence of 
novels. Leave it then no longer in the hands of those 
who are defiling it. Music is already in a great mea- 
sure redeemed, but her sister is still struggling for the 
exaltation which she is forbidden to share. 

To say of any one " he is love-sick," or has been 
" disappointed," is to place a brand upon his forehead, 



' 144 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

and yet no one could merit these charges, who was 
not pure in heart and lofty in spirit. An English writer, 
who has ventured to raise his voice against this evil, re- 
lates the treatment which two peasants received for the 
same offence. One just married had lost his wife, and 
all the people gathered together to mourn and offer their 
meed of sympathy. The other was about to be married, 
when the object of his affection was removed by death, 
and because he mourned and wept, the people sneered, 
and when contempt did not banish his sadness, they 
hurried him to a mad-house, saying he was worse than 
a lunatic. 

How many have I known, who were ready with sym- 
pathy and aid for every form of physical suffering, who 
had only scorn for the heart's, woes and yet any species 
of torture to which the body nuiy be subjected, is a 
soothing anodyne in comparison with the tortures of the 
soul. How many who have grown old forget the 
dreams of youth, and woe to those who fall into their 
hands. But more to be pitied are those young, pure 
beino-s who are subjected to the control of those, whose 
lives have been so gross and sinful, that they cannot 
conceive of purity, and who judge others by their own 
depravity. There are a great many who regard with a 
just horror any violation of the marriage vow^, who con- 
sider it a trifling matter to tramule upon the not less 



A CHAPTER ON LOVE. ]45 

sacred seal of betrothal. The former, solemn and bind- 
ing as it is or should be, is but the emblem of the holier 
covenant, which has preceded it, and without which 
marriage is a crime too revolting to be named. The 
one is a consecration between two loving hearts, with 
God only for a witness, the other is a ratification of 
that covenant, in the presence of man. 

And not till he or she, who is recreant to the silent 
and secret pledge, shall be scorned as truly as he or she 
who is false to the public vow, will society be purified 
and these holy relationships honored as God intended 
7 



Cmtitto €m\$m. 



SITTING one day in the elegant parlor of one of 
tliose princely habitations which denote wealth and 
the extent of luxury, we were suddenly started by a 
thundering knock at the street door which threatened 
the foundations of the establishment, and so frightened 
our timid senses, that we were transfixed with fear and 
trembling. Hoping the tacit " no admittance" would 
bid the intruders depart, and be at peace, we remained 
mute and immovable, but louder and louder grew the 

astounding thump, thump, thump, till we ventured to an 

(146) 



COUNTRY COUSINS. 147 

opened window to see what could be the occasion. The 
utmost stretching of our necks only permitted us 
a glimpse of two forms standing on the upper step, 15at 
presently we heard a passer by, exhorting them to ring 
the bell like Christian people, and not stand there beat- 
ing in granite walls. Upon this we darted back out of 
sight , but were not out of hearing, as the question 
which soon fell upon our ears testified. The good man 
gazed up and down, this way and that, expecting to see 
a rope attached somewhere, the other extremity of 
which would be fastened to a veritable church bell in 
the cupola, not doubting that private houses in the city 
were thus grandly decorated, and was ready to despair 
of finding entrance, when another passer by kindly 
pointed to the little handle by the door, and bid him ring 
till some one came to his relief. So the next sound 
which greeted our already excited auditoriah^ was the 
continuous twang and jingle, v^'hich is better imagined 
than described, when the wire is pulled by a strorrg 
hand and persevering will. 

To this we concluded to respond, and what was the 
consternation of mine host, as we all went in a phalanx 
for the purpose of self defence, to behold his cousin 
Nicholas Countryman, from the northmost county, come 
with his blooming bride on a wedding tour to see their 
" city relations." And there they stood in still greater 
consternation, wondering *' why we could not let a feller 



148 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

in without all this fuss ;" and there was their baggage — 
a new wooden trunk, painted Spanish brown, in imita- 
tion of mahogany, a bright green band-box tied with 
yellow list, which once edged those pantaloons of blue, 
and a bundle under each arm — and there they were on 
our marble steps, in front of our Doric Hall, ready to be 
ushered into our grand saloon, and make themselves at 
home on our tapestry carpets and velvet lounges. It 
was not my province to utter welcomes, so I stood still 
to see what would be done, and I saw what gladdened 
my eyes and made my heart rejoice. 

As soon as the first surprise was over, no king or 
queen or nabob, could have been received with more 
genuine kindness and respect. There was not a re- 
mark nor look nor smile that pointed to the rough exte- 
rior. The host and hostess followed the Christian rule 
and looked only on the heart, and never did truer or 
nobler hearts beat in human bosoms. The visitors were 
not only feasted with all the good things w^hich the mar- 
ket afforded, but taken without any winching or mincing 
to see all the lions and elephants^ and everything was 
done to increase rather than to disturb their compla- 
cency. 

The bride in her shiny new silk, and dunstable straw, 
with white trimmings, was accompanied to Stewart's, 
and it was a trial to the gravest risibles, after showing 
her the silks, and velvetgi and cashmeres of such an 



COUNTRY COUSINS. 149 

establishmer\t to hear her say to the dashing clerk 
behind the counter, " Have you any lemons to sell." 
" Lemons ? we don't keej^ lemons," was the reply. " Oh 
I'm sorry, I wanted to get a few to put up in my citron 
sarse." At the next bazaar the same colloquy was re- 
peated, when she was with kindest delicacy, informed 
that the merchants did not keep all sorts of things in one 
store, as they did in the country, and she should soon 
call where whatever she wanted in that line could be 
found. They spent a week and had a " good time," as 
their broad happy faces indicated, and returned home 
to tell the wonders they had seen, being furnished with 
" food for talk" during half the winter's evenings by the 
fireside. Their trip to the gceat city, would be an era 
to look back upon all their lives. If some people had 
been called upon to do the honors on such an occasion, 
they would have made it a week of misery and so 
wounded two honest hearts, that a lifetii»e would not 
riave healed the wound. 



DID you ever look into one of those mysterious 
drawers, which ladies spend so much time in filling 
and arranging, and open and shut with so much 
importance ; looking all the while as if they had just 
been appointed maid of honor to the Princess royal ? 
This I was permitted to do not long ago, and I did not 
pay anything for the sight; but I believe I am one of 
the privileged ones. 

I cannot tell what you would do ; and whatever you 
may think of me, I do not blush to confess, that I took 

(150) 



OUR BABY. 151 

those tiny shoes, which looked as if they might just fit 
Queen Mab, and pressed them to my hps. They were 
snugly lying in one corner, and in the other were curious 
layers of German worsted, with such curious devices ! 
In the centre was a cushion of white embroidered with 
blue, on which came out, in full relief, the initial letters 
of a name, which no living person bore that I knew ! 
All around were lying little g-ossamer things, with 
Mechlin edges and delicate tassels and silken fringes. 
Why, if the Queen had been coming, I think there 
would have been no more elaborate preparation. One 
after another I took them up and laid them down again, 
with the fear almost that they would vanish at the 
touch of my fingers, and all the while there stood one 
looking on, with a delight no words of mine can possibly 
describe. 

This was six riionths ago — and then I could laugh 
aloud and make any noise I pleased — but soon I went 
away, and now I'm here again. The sequel is this ! 

" Hush, hush, you will wake the baby !" Who in all 
the world has not heard this warning, and heeded it, too. 
I am laughing as loud as I can, and feel, just now, so 
full of fun that it is almost impossible to repress my 
mirth ; yet, instantly, I am keeping breathless silence ; 
for what if I should wake the baby. Why it would 
cry, and then such a singing and rocking, and lullabying 
as would be necessary to get it to sleep again. But this 



152 THE MYKTLlfi WREATH. 

is not all the reason. It is a litile lump of a thing, to 
be sure, but then it is our baby. I might go into every 
house in Christendom, and in heathendom, too, I sup- 
pose, and there I should find just such a little lump ; it 
would be lying in a crib or in a cradle — on the floor, or 
in a hammock ; — all would be engaged in a similar em- 
ployment — holding a rattle or sucking a thumb — rolling 
over or tied in a chair ; and the millions and millions 
who have peopled the world, have all grown out of just 
Such little dumplings ; but yet there would not be one so 
wonderful as our baby. 

Why, just see : How fine and soft and silky the hair 
that covers its little head. There have been blue eyes, 
but never any that were so sunny — never any dimples 
quite so sweet as those which nestle in the cheek of 
LuLY. " There never was a baby so good, that gave so 
little trouble to its mamma." " Why, you would 
hardly know there w^as a baby in the house." 

Do you see her ? She has on a little white frock, 
with the three cornered bib pinned neatly down before, 
and tied behind. The sleeve is looped by a cunning little 
button on the shoulder; and there is lurking underneath 
the daintiest bit of linen cambric edged with lace ; and 
round the bosom peeps up a little frill, vieing with its 
snowy resting-place for whiteness. A lily-bud, with the 
petals just opening to the light, our Luly is. 

I have tried a thousand times to tell why it was so 



OUR BABY. 153 

beautiful — why, the little thing, without a thought of 
doiug it, should bewitch us so. I have seen a hundred 
babies smile, and yet I never see the gleam from out 
that little soul in those blue eyes, without forgetting all 
things else, to gaze, and wander and almost worship. 

Do 3^ou see her ? I wish you could. They have put 
her ou the floor ; and in defiance of all these chains and 
scollops mamma spent so much time in linking — in de- 
fiance all that skirt, three times her length to trammel 
her, out come those little feet with little socks so 
cunningly tipped with blue ; and may I never see agaiu 
the stoic or old bachelor who would not stand entranced 
by such a vision of perfect happiness as "Baby is, with 
one foot in the hand and the other in the mouth, and 
warbling in her little throat a strain of music which no 
cultivator of quavers or semi-quavers can ever imitate, or 
make to strike so thrillingly on a mother's soul. 

I remember when papa would not hold a baby, — 
w^ould not even look at one. No, he was not so weak 
and silly ; — but this is his baby, our baby — so different 
from babies he has ever before been called upon to 
notice , its loving goo, goo, goo, is full of meaning. 
And will you not forgive him if the newspapers and 
musty law books have lost their charms, now that he has 
a little living, moving book, every day and hour develo- 
ping some new page, illustrated as no human artist's 
ekill can equal ? 



154 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

And now,— no mother in the land will believe mo, 
and yet 'tis true,— the baby is in my lap. It is not my 
baby,— oh no ! I have not attained unto so much 
honor, — but it is our baby, all the same, and the fond- 
ness she manifests for pen and paper would not be at 
all gratifying to those who thinli these such bugbears 
to usefulness. 

Oftener than at every period, I stop to press a kiss 
upon her cheek, and at every paragraph my pen is 
dropped to give a smile and woo it back again. Oh, 
what is heart of man or woman worth, that does not melt 
in the warmth of sunbeam such as this ? 

I put my lips to hers to taste the sweet infant 
breath, and it is like sipping nectar from the floweret's 
brim. As fair as the lily of the valley she will grow, — 
as perfect in her beauty. Oh, may she be as pure 
among the daughters of the land, as this among the lilies 
of the field. 



^t Cltaring* 



It grieves my heart to see the woodman's axe 
And fire relentless raze those grand old woods ! 
For centuries their giant trees have stood, 
Dallying with summer's breeze — but proud and stern 
In winter's storms defiant of the winds 
That ride on tempest wings. 

But now they fall, 
The elm, the oak, the bold and hardy fir, 
Powerless to Earth before the ruthless hand 
Of puny man, and heaped in massive piles 

• (155) 



156 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

Awaits the torch that gives tlieir noble forma 
A holocaust unto the god of jSre. 

The thousand birds that waken their music notes 
In that old haunt, the squirrel and the hare, 
Have lost a home. The evening zeph^^r mourns 
In silence, and the strongly girded winds 
Which battled with those trees will now pass by 
"With cold and heartless sneer. 

I too may mourn, 
For every nook long cherished and so dear ; 
The glen with wild enchanting solitude, 
And even the precipice, though frowning now 
In bolder grandeur, all have lost their charms. 

But lo ! the lighted fires come creeping on, 

And every tree and shrub and running vine 

Becomes its prey. The parti- colored leaves 

Crackle and curl and wither in the blaze, 

And where the red flame wreathes its frightful folds 

Around some grey old trunk, anon I hear 

The hissing of a thousand forked tongues. 

The woodmen shout and hurry to and fro. 

Curbing the fire, lest o'er the circling bound 

It make a fearful stride. 

The winding paths, 



THE CLEARING. [57 

Where oft I've strayed at twilight's lonely hour, 
To hear the music that the passions lulls, 
And wakens holy thoughts, with cinders dark 
Are filled, and o'er the favorite mossy mound 
Where I have loved to sit and muse alone 
x\mid the stillness of this solemn place. 
Lie heaps of ashes. 

Ah, 'tis ruin all ! 
That scene of beauty — trees and leaves and flowers. 
Gorgeous in sunlight of morn or even — 
Is now a waste. Alas ! that no loved haunt 
Escapes the all relentless Clearing's doom ! 

The smoke of smouldering fires is curling still, , 
Above the brushw^ood piles, and swarthy men, 
The echo of whose voices may be heard 
With dismal sound through all the open plain, 
Together roll the trees' gigantic stems, 
That shake the earth, and fill the air with groans. , 
Like rumbling of the distant thunder cloud. 

Vision prophetic now is not required. 

To trace the progress of the coming years ; 

The grounds where stood the forest dark and dense, 

Are open to the noonday* sun ; and soon 



158 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

The humble cot will rise — cheerful abode 

Of industry and honest enterprise : 

The greensward then will smile around the door, 

And o'er the fields the yellow harvest wave. 

The knolls and clumps and rubbish rude, wall yield 

To energetic toil. The grazing kine 

Will crop the grass upon the green hill ^ide. 

And lazy sheep will feed the live-long day 

Among the rocks, and peace and happiness 

Will smile around the frugal yeoman's board. 

Oh I could it thus remain I would not sigh 
For all my woodland groves and olden haunts; 
But luxury, welcome guest, will enter in. 
With all her menial train — and lighted halls, 
And festive circles gay will take the place 
Of rural sports upon the village green. 
The laugh of glee w^hich bursts from merry hearts 
Untuned to fashion's rules will melt away 
In polished smiles. The rich will own the soil. 
The poor with toil severe will earn their bread. 
In garden, grove and bower, will art entwine 
Her garlands bright, and with alluring grace 
In every form invite to indolence 
And ease. 



THE CLEARING. lo9 

But not contentment this. The love 
That dwelt beneath the cottage roof has fied 
The spacious dome. The ruddy glow of health 
Has vanished too. The feverish flush betrays 
A sated worshipper at pleasure's shrine, 
Or one who spends the wakeful weary nights 
In bowing with ambition's votaries. 

Would that my muse might rest in silence here ! 
But truth would bid her tell of passions base, 
And vice that ever follows in the train 
Where selfish pleasure leads. 

No tyrant yet 
Hath held his sceptre o'er our happy land — 
No despot's scourge intruded on the home 
Of peace, to bid the peasant leave his roof 
And seek asylum in a foreign clime ; 
No King can roll his chariot o'er our fields, 
And gather half the produce of our soil, 
To weave his golden-tissued robes, or load 
His table from a world's luxurious stora 
But downy couch and silken curtain folds 
Are not alone enjoyed by kings. Although 
No mitred heads or regal crowns are found 
Among our nation's noblemen, we blush 



160 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

To own the many who can basely bend 
To barter e'en their country's glorious fame — 
Her honor and her virtue too, to fill 
Their princely halls with all the pageantry 
Of kings, parade and pomp which palaces 
Of titled noblemen would scorn to own ! • 

Kepublican simplicity ! the shrine 

At which the orator pretends to bow, 

Is but a name. Go home with him, and who 

Could count the courses at his daily meals — 

The meats, the wines and desserts rare, which yet 

The pampered palate loathes — the retinue 

Of servants trained perchance in foreign courts, 

To wait his nod, to speak in phrase like those 

"Who worship Eoyalty — to move with step 

Of servile tread, with face of servile mould, 

As courtly rules demand ! 

The statesman asks 
Eetrenchment ! loud reverberates the word 
In Congress hall, and on the senate floor ! 
Eetrenchment ! Where ? Within his marble walls ? 
Oh no ! His carpets must be brought across 
The ocean wave; he must at ease recline 
On " divans " rich, with gold and silver threads ; 
Parisian drapery curtains him at night, 



THE CLEARING. 161 

And " ottomans " tind " tabourets " adorn 

His gojrgeous halls ! French mirrors must reflect 

His form. And he who scarce can gain by days 

And nights of anxious toil, the paltry sum, 

His daily wants demand, large share must give 

Of this to fill the cofifers that supply — 

I must not say court sycophants, but those 

Whose " bills," " expenditures," would puzzle '' peers " 

Impoverish " princes of the realm " — w^hose dress 

And equipage would dazzle at the queen's levee ! 

Oh luxury, how many states 
And empires owe to thee their seeming rise, 
To opulence prosperity and power. 
The marks ofdegradation, ruin, death ! 
Dominion is not strength ! Our banner bright 
May proudly wave o'er land and ocean wide, 
And yet the mighty pillars which support 
Our nation's glory and her bright renown, 
May harbor the insidious worm which gnaws 
The root and saps the vitals ! 

Let the great 
And mighty intellects, the noble men 
Who weave the tissue of their country's fame 
And give our government its character abroad,— 
Who're building up this vast republic, grand 
And glorious monument of freedom's strength 



162 THE MYRTLE WREATH 

Beware ! lest the proud column which they rear, 
And hope through many ages will withstand 
The ravages of time, and heavy blows 
Of many a secret, more inveterate foe, 
Shall crumble ere its beauty be efifaced, 
Ere they have ceased to boast its symmetry, 
And bid their sons look on its grandeur ; lest 
The beauteous tree, their fathers planted, they 
Have watered, wither and decay before 
A generation, shall beneath its boughs 
Have found repose, or tasted of its fruit ! 



i fttstanb's Mtopg. 



• • f\^) it is not much matter. I shall be back in a 
\J few days ! I have nothing particular to say. It 
is no use writing just to tell her I am well." This w^as 
a husband's soliloquy. 

' My dear sir, have you lived with her so long, and 

not learned that " your smile is dearer to her than the 

light of Heaven ?" If you will sit down and say : 

" Dearest, I am well, and will soon be back again," it 

would be more than any rod to support her, — more 

than any staflf to comfort her. Your affection is more 

(163) 



1 64 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

than meat to her, your presence more than raiment. 
She is alone now. She has felt so secure when you 
were there, — she has slept so sweetly by your side, 
that you cannot know how she starts at every sound 
when you are absent ; how timidly she moves about, 
feeling in every nerve that she is without protection. 

You are strong, and know not what it is to rely upon 
another, but she has never learned to rely upon herself. 
Remember, you have taught her that this clinging 
dependance, this love and trust, are the beauty and 
glory of woman. This was what attracted you. This 
was what you professed to love her for. 

When you cease to love her, she will die, but though 
she does not yet doubt it, the sweetest of all incense is 
to hear it from your lips. 

" No letter 1" You have been absent three days ; 
and she soliloquizes, too : " He is busy. He is well, 
certainly, or he would let me know. I shall hear 
to-morrow." But she is sad. She does now know the 
cause. She would not for a thousand worlds acknow- 
ledge that she feared you loved her less, but there is an 
incubus upon her spirits. 

She has written every day, almost every hour ; not 
because it was her duty, not because you requested it 
or expected it ; but because she could not help it. Her 
heart was full to overflowing. Every breath was some 
expression of her gushing love. You cannot love her 



A husband's soliloquy.- 165 

as she loves you, but you can manifest the love you 
have. 

Write— tell her that you have not prospered in 
business, that you are sick, aye, that you are imprison- 
ed ; but add that your love fails not, and would that you 
could be there to see how the heart lightens, and the 
face brightens. Tell her that though absent, your 
heart is still with her, and she will shrink from no trial 
and fear no danger. 

Eemember, ye who tell us that home is our sphere 
and love aur office, that it is your home in which we 
live, your love which is our life, and when you take 
from us that which is our very existence, blame us not 
if we go forth into the world to find the solace and the 
compensation which you prefer, to the devotion of a 
heart which would immolate itself on any altar for 
your honor and your happiness. 



§xm, '^mm, m\)s '§mu-Mt 



MOST people are aware that there are some general 
rules to be observed with regard to dress, without 
regard to fashion. A short lady with a dumpy form, 
knows or ought to know, that she must not wear large 
fio-ures and high colors unless she would look hideous: 
and a tall lady that she must abjure vines and stripes, 
though she may spori frills and flounces. 

Few people seem ever to think of the effect of color 
and figure in selecting carpets and paper hangings, and 
designers are originally at fault, or such outlandisti com- 
binations would not be offered. The floor is a plain 

(166) 



DRESS, HOUSES, AND HOUSE-WORK. 167 

surfaca and should ever remain so ; we do not walk 
over castles and trees, and shrubbery, and it is bad 
taste to make us seem to. It is a curious fact that the 
Turks excel in carpets, and that the Turkish carpet of 
to-day is the same as that which kings only could pur- 
chase centuries ago, proving that what is really beauti- 
ful lives through all fashion and change. The carpet 
should be darker than the walls, and always selected 
with reference to the paper and the size of the room. 

Goethe said " Colors have great elBfect upon the feel- 
ings," and a Frenchman once observed that his conver- 
sation with Madame had become of a " different character 
since she had changed her boudoir, which was formerly 
blue." One colored paper will make a room look cold 
and cheerless, and another render the same apartment 
warm and cheerful. A southern exposure will bear a 
green paper, while the same color on a northern room, 
would chill us with the thermometer at eighty. 

A dining room should have a rich dark pap^r, for 
with this room we wish especially to associate comfort 
and portraits should be hung here where familiar faces 
were wont to congregate, and where we love still to see 
them linger. 

The Architect and Designer have a distinct profes- 
sion in the city, and we are impatient to see them multi- 
ply so that country housewives may not live another ge- 



1G8 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

neration without the slightest conception of coiivenience 
in any of their household arrangements. 

We have in our mind many old fashioned castles con- 
sidered in their day models of elegance and comfort, 
which would now be looked upon as a disgrace to the 
dark ages. The kitchen is a Sabbath day's journey 
from the store house, and the china closet another from 
Ijoth — and to get the articles for one meal, the wife, maid 
and mother, all in one, must run miles up stairs and 
down stairs, in doors and out, and round Eobin Hood's 
barn, with no possibility of so doing without being ex- 
posed to extremes of heat and cold, sufficient in one 
week to destroy any ordinary constitution. While her 
"loving spouse," thinks she is ''having a very easy 
time, doing nothing that deserves the name of labor !" 

But in this case there is little hope of convincing the 
" superior portion of creation" that it is possible for 
them to err, as experience alone could become the effec- 
tual teacher, and their position prevents their coming 
under her tuition ! 



€kt %xm le0. 



^ ^"niRE, fire !" What a startling sound is this at 
X midnight, when your si uiriber is deepest. "Fire 
fire !" And the noise of trampling feet and rattling 
wheels is mingled with the deafening screams. 

By these sounds I was awakened a few nights ?ince 
and looked furth upon the grand but terrific sight of a 
house in flames. "And where are those who were 
sweetly and securely dreaming beneath that roof only 
an hour ago ?" I exclaimed, as I heard the crash of 
glass, and saw the smoke charring the walls and black- 
^ ' (169) 



170 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

ening the timbers, arid the fruitless efforts of the coura 
geous firemen to stop the work of destruction. 

It was occupied by a mother and three children — the 
youngest an infant in the cradle. At the first alarm, 
the mother fled with two that could cling to her, 
intending to return for the baby, when they were placed 
beyond danger. But then it will be too late ; the roof 
is tumbling, and the smoke has filled every room 
to suffocation. 

But the mother is frantic, and cries " Oh save my 
child !" " Where is it ?" asked one of these brave men, 
ready at any moment to peril life and limb, in obedience 
to the mandate which calls them forth ; " Where is it? 
— I will try." She points to the chamber where she 
left the sleeping infant, and in another instant he is 
scaling the ladder which rests against the tottering wall. 
The multitude is gazing anxiously, with scarcely a hope 
that he will accomplish his noble purpose. The water 
is pouring upon every side ; the hissing and roaring and 
crackling becomes fearful ; he enters the window — our 
suspense is agony ; he appears again — that strong, bold 
man ; ah, yes ! and the little unconscious creature is 
nesthng in his bosom. Can he descend ? — how carefully 
he steps ! Our nerves are ready to snap with the pain- 
ful distension — no ; it is in vain, he cannot reach the 
ground in safety — they will be buried beneath the burn- 
'ng ruins. " Oh, save them, save them," cry a hundred 



THE TRUE HERO. 171 

voices, and there is a rush towards the spot. But he is 
calm, and betrays no fear — they are safe; and while 
the air is resounding with his praises, he gently pkices 
the child on its mother^s bosom. 

Her heart is too full to speak her gratitude, and ere 
the words can come to her relief, he has disappeared 
among the crowd, and she does not even know his name. 
If such an instance of heroism had occurred on the bat 
tie field, how many a bard would have sung the hero's 
praises. His name would have been emblazoned on the 
page of history, and Princes would have sought to do 
him honor. But he is a fireman, and has only per- 
formed his duty. He is the citizen of a humble class, 
and must not expect to be crowned with laurels. It is 
a duty he performs every day or night, whenever he is 
called upon ; and that he never shrinks from danger, or 
turns a deaf ear to the prayers of the widow and or 
phan, the aged and the helpless, is no great merit. 
This is what he knows is expected of him when he en- 
rolls himself with the little band who are more than bul- 
wark and fortress and armed legions, round about the 
walls of the great city. 

So the soldier knows what is expected of him when 
he enlists for the field of battle, but his brave deeds are 
not the less recorded, and it is heralded with triumph 
when the conqueror proves to be merciful. 



172 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

Let US at least show our appreciation of labors which 
, are performed so faithfully and disinterestedly, and 
never forget the brave spirits without w^hose guardian- 
ship we should scarcely dare to slumber, and honor the 
true heart, however humble the bosom in which it 
beats. 



^ lint ta faitselict^trs. 



W WT T is no use to try to teach these IMsh. It is 
X more trouble to run after them than to do the 
work. They waste more than they are worth," &c., &c. 
These are remarks we often hear from ladies who 
have seen much trouble with their " help," and I would 
like to ask some of them to walk with me into that neat 
little cottacre down in the vallev, and see one of" those 
Irish," who came from old Ireland some five years ago, 
as " raw" as one of their own praties. Just look at 
her now, a round red rosy cheeked girl, as smiling as a 

(173) 



174 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

May morning, and tidy as a pattern dairy maid. She 
trips about as softly as if her feet were shod with velvet, 
and there is nothing in all the annals of cookery, break- 
fast, dinner or supper, which she is not skilled in doing. 

If the Prime Minister were coming, Kitty would get 
the dinner without any assistance, and he should have 
roast beef done to suit an Englishman's palate, and all 
the etceteras should satisfy the veriest epicure. 

But it took a long time and much patience to teach 
her, and it was not done by sitting in the parlor and tel- 
ling her to do this and that, and going into the kitchen 
to fret if it were not done. Her mistress worked with 
her, and kindly and patiently showed her with her own 
hands how to make bread and roast meat, rub 
silver and wash pots and kettles. Not a week nor 
a month, but a year, did she spend in training her, and 
now she has her reward. 

She could neither read nor write, nor sew, and now 
she can indite a pretty letter, and read any ordinary 
book. She can knit her own stockings, and do her own 
sewing, and has had her taste cultivated, so as to dress 
neatly and becomingly. She has sent many dollars back 
to Ireland, and laid up quite a little store, and above all 
is faithful and affectionate, disinterested and self deny- 
ing. And yet she was not a promising subject at all — 
not smart or tidy naturally, and is still very moderate 
in her movements. 



HINT TO HOUSEKEEPERS. 175 

It is often the case that we expect more of servants 
than we can possibly perform ourselves — to bear with 
more patience the constantly recurring trials of the 
kitchen and nursery. They are doomed to the kitchen 
all day, and the garret all night, — weary, with nothing 
to cheer the present or brighten the future 

We forget the golden rule, and are not willing to 
think what we should have been had we been born in 
an Irish hovel, and left to a worse neglect than the 
beasts that perish. They have many faults, and re- 
quire the exercise of much patience, but they have kind, 
warm, generous hearts, and any woman may prove her- 
self a true missionary in training them for usefulness 
here and happiness hereafter 



'gtimx is ms €m\\tti 



TEANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OP BER ANGER. 

Thou gallant bark, glide swiftly on, 

'Till safely moored upon the strand, 
And let the kindly breeze be won 
To waft me to my native land ! 
Oh dear to me, 
My own countrie ! 
With beating heart and bosom throbbing high, 
I woo the gale, ^ 

Eight onward sail, 



RETURN TO MY COUNTRY. 177 

And on thy sacred shores return to die. 
But hark ! a welcome sound for me 1 

" Land ! land ahead !" falls on my ear, 

And hushed is every gloomy fear. 
All hail my country, peace to thee ! 



Oh, yes, it is my native shore ; 

The port its fortress proudly rears, 
And, near the cot where glided o'er 
So peacefully my infant years. 
Oh dear to me. 
My own countrie ! 
A wanderer long through many a distant clime. 
The village green 
Again is seen. 
And curling wreaths from out the cottage cime. 
The heart is sad that turns to thee, 
For there a mother kindled joy, 
And gently hushed her cradled boy. 
All hail my country, peace to thee I 

Ungrateful youth ! I fled from home. 

And wafted by the ocean breeze, 
Through fragrant isles went forth to roam, 

Encircled by the sparkling seas. 



178 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

Oh dear to me, 



My own countrie ! 
Oh would were mine those ever beauteous bowers, 
Crowned all the year 
With gala gear, 
Anon with flowers and fruit, and fruit and flowers. 
But then I longed thy cliffs to see, 

Would dream of sterner climes more dear. 
And e'en regret thy winter drear. 
All hail my country, peace to thee ! 

The ties of love and friendship dear 

Might still have bound me to thy soil. 
And treasures rich were gathered there, 
And golden gifts unearned by toil. 
Oh dear to me. 
My own countrie ! 
Far more I love thy rugged rocks to greet ! 
Though wealth were mine, 
All charms were thine, 
To dwell with thee inspires a joy more sweet. 
Though dear that prairie life to me ; 
Thy sun alone can cheer me now. 
The frosts of age are on my brow ; 
All hail my country, peace to thee ! 



RETURN TO MY COUNTRY. 179 

'Mong nature's rude unlettered men, 

A kingly crown they made me wear, 
And through the forest glade and glen, 
I bade the deadly foe beware ! 
Oh dear to me, 
My own countrie ! 
Thy fields e'en then were groaning with the slain, 
And victory's wreath, 
Nor honor's breath 
Could stifle for thy woes my bosom's pain ! 
Oh what were India's wealth to me ! 
Though poor, I come with eagle wing, 
The badge of toil is all I bring, 
All hail my country, peace to thee ! 

And now adieu, thou billowy sen, 

Thou canst no more with foaming wave. 
Restrain the boundings of the free, 
The restless spirit of the brave ! 
Oh dear to me, 
My own countrie ! 
May love as pure inspire each patriot soil) 
And now once more 
Upon thy shore. 



180 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

I kiss the sod so dear to me. 
An exile, long, I seemed a foe, 
And suffered all an exile's woe ! 

All hail my country, peace to thee I 



Um S — — , 

OR MARRYING FOR A HOME. 



^^ "TV^ you love him ?" " No, and I do not pretend 
AJ to love him — I have told him a thousand times I 
did not love him." 

" Then why do you marry him ?" 

"We are engaged, and I cannot meet the censure 
which would be cast upon me if I were to break an en- 
gagement. A trifler, a flirt, what would they not call 
me, w^ere I to reject him now ?" 

" To be sure, all this you would have to bear, and it 
should seem almost insupportable in your eyes, but is 

(181) 



182 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

not all that preferable to a life, a long life of such misery 
as is the certain doom of marriage without love ?" 

" He shall never know that I do not love him, I will 
be kind and c'heerful and make him happy. I know I 
can do this." 

^' Oh, Ellen, little do j^ou know what you are under- 
taking. It is impossible for you to be a kind and duti- 
ful without being a loving wife. There exists in your 
case a repulsion which cannot be overcome ; the very 
effort will generate hatred; you will become hateful 
j^ourself, and fill for both a cup of misery more bitter 
than any other the world has to offer. I beseech you 
think again before you take such a step." 

" What can I do ? I cannot live here always ; my 
father is not able to support me, and I have not been 
educated to support myself. I shall be an " old maid at 
home." Oh, mercy ! anything but that. Yes, I will 
marry him. I shall not be happy, but I will not be so 
miserable as you predict." 

My efforts to change this resolution were unavailing, 
and in four weeks Ellen S was a bride. 

Oh, that Fathers and Mothers would provide for their 
daughters some refuge from such a doom as this. Her 
father was not able to support her; she might not have 
another offer ; she had not reared in luxury and none 
of the ordinary occupations lof woman would give her a 



MARRYING FOR A HOME. 183 

position congenial to her taste, or remuneration sufficient 
for her wants. 

God endowed her with talents far above the common 
order, talents which, if they have been cultivated, might 
have won for her a fortune. She had been educated 
like other young ladies, had studied with the same mo- 
tives, with the same end in view. She did not need 
knowledge to gain her a husband, and she had no idea 
that it would be needed to gain her anything else. 

While yet a child and during all the days of girl- 
hood, she had exulted in having a beau. It was delight- 
ful to have some one always ready to attend her. 
Was there a sleighride in w^inter, she knew that Wil- 
liam B would invite her ; was there a pic-nic in 

summer, there was no danger that she would be obliged 
to stay at home. She was young and gay and thought- 
less, and whose fault was it that she thought only of the 
present and prepared not for the future ? 

Her parents thought W a " good match " for 

Ellen — his father was rich ; " he belonged to a good 
family ;" he was " smart for business," and though a 
little wild, would sober down when he was fairly mar- 
ried, and make a "good provider" and "kind hus- 
band,"— '' good enough for any girl." They were 
pleased with the hope of seeing their daughter, only 
daughter as she was, do so well, and gave him their 
encouragement and approbation. 



1 84 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

But Ellen did not look upon it so seriously ; she liked 
his attentions — she accepted his presents, scarcely think- 
ing of the consequences. He loved her, and she knew 
it, and she thought she liked him " well enough " — if 
she should find no one she liked better, she supposed 
they would some day be married. But that was some- 
thing far off in the future ; she tried not to dwell upon 
it, thinking it sufficient to enjoy the present. 

Those who looked on considered it a settled affair^ 
and the village gossips said " it would be shameful if 
she were flirting all this time, but they should not won- 
der if it all came to nothing." Ellen, though not hand- 
some,, had other qualities which are sure to excite envy 
in youthful companions, and William was considered by 
many " altogether too good for her." And she liked 
very %vell to defy them ; so she rode, and walked, and 
talked, and let every body know she should do as she 



While she was walking and talking and making her- 
self agreeable, her lover was believing himself beloved, 
and trusting that his attentions would not be received — 
feeling, as he did, that they could not be misunder- 
stood — unless she who permitted them was sincere. 
Therefore he too considered it a settled affair^ long be- 
fore Ellen had given a serious thought to the subject. 
When she was rallied, she rallied again, and went gayly 
on as before. 



MARRYING FOR A HOME. 1 85 

She had never been out of her native village — her 
heart had never been tried. She did not know the 
meaning of love — would that she had never learned ! 

Neither did she know her power, and I trembled 
when I saw her transferred from her quiet home to the 
saloons of the rich, and gay and cultivated. 

Very soon did the homage which she received make 
known to her the fascination of which she was capable, 
and I cannot say that she was entirely above yielding to 
the temptation so strong to woman, of winning admira- 
tion for admiration's sake. She felt that she had no 
right to win love — her friends had seriously warned 
her before she went forth into the world, that her 
acceptance of William B.'s attentions so long was 
equivalent to an engagement, and she must not dream 
of breaking it. 

Byron says it is not beauty or grace in woman that 
is most sure to attract and secure the homage of man, 

" What we want is animation," 

and this was Ellen's pecuhar charm. The fascination 
was in her manners. Intellect flashed in her eye and 
the soul gleamed in every expression of her countenance. 
She was alive with glowing thought, and original and 
sparkling in her conversation. She was something fresh 
and new in the circle of the city, and by the many who 



THE MYRTLE WREATH. 186 

could appreciate her was welcomed as the life of a 
fashionable soiree, where dullness so universally reigns. 
For a long time it is admiration alone which is offered, 
and though it is lavished upon her, and though she is 
among the rich, and gay, and fashionable, she is not 
seduced from her simple tastes. Her plain white dress 
is not exchanged for the gaudy plumage of the fashion- 
able, and her brown tresses are still in those rich classic 
braids which so become her Grecian head. Flattery 
and adulation have not destroyed her love of the 
pure and true. 



Now to Ellen the hour of trial has come. A heart 
has been offered, a heart that beats in unison with her 
own, by one who is gifted and noble and cultivated — • 
one to whom she can look up as her superior — whom 
she can lean upon and cling to with a true woman's per- 
fect trust. 

True love is not a fancy — not a dream ; but a reality, 
a beautiful reality indeed, but not the less a reality, and 
the most refining and exalting of all earthly influences 
upon the human heart and soul. Like all other precious 
metals it has many counterfeits, and it is these which 
give the false impression concerning the genuine coin. 

There are many, very many, who go all the way 
through life, without learning its value, without any con- 



MARRYING FOR A HOME. 187 

ception of its meaning. Some because they are not capa- 
ble of it— whose natures are too coarse to become a 
dwelling place for aught so delicate and pure, and many 
because the life links are formed, ere the heart has learn- 
ed its necessities, and then marriage and its duties and 
seclusion kindly shield them from communion w_ith those, 
who might have inspired the true love, which become 
like burning lava in the bosom, where it must be smo- 
thered and concealed, especially where it would be sin 
to indulge it. 

In Ellen^s bosom there is a fierce struggle. She has 
learned to look upon her obligations to W— , as amount- 
ing to an engagement, and the consequences of annull- 
ing it she knows too well. Her friends would consider 
it°unpardonable, and he to whom she is thus bound 
would be desperate. But now that she has learned the 
nature of such a tie, and learned the love of which she 
is capable, and without' which she must be wretched, 
she revolts from the crime of giving her hand where her 
heart can never go. 

She thinks she would willingly relinquish the hope of 
happiness if she could be released from the certainty of 
misery. She has but just begun to pass^ through the 
ordeal which is preparing for her, and has yet learned 
nothing of temptation and trial. 

Many weeks Ellen has passed in almost daily inter- 
course with her new friend. She has become intoxicated 



188 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

with happiness, has forgotten her only vows, the warn- 
ings of friends, and given herself up to the absorbing in- 
terest of her new life, leaving the past and the future 
to take care of themselves. Admiration has no longer 
any charms for her ; she is a true woman, and the devo- 
tion of one heart is worth more to her than the homage 
of a world. 

They have talked of their own hopes and their own 
future, and Ellen has faithfully revealed to Eugene the 
folly of her early betrothal, and he of course assures her 
that her love for him severs all other bonds. She sits 
hour after hour with her hand clasped in his, feeling 
how sweet it is to give up self with a perfect love and 
trust, and has no fear. 

She has asked no advice and spoken of her love to no 
friend. Often she sits down to write to W — , and tell 
him all, but words will not come to her relief, and she 
throws the pen from her, trying to think it is of no great 
consequence; at least she had rather speak it with her 
lips — when she sees him she will frankly tell him all. 

But the home of Eugene is far away in the sunny 
South, and he must return to it and leave Ellen alone 
awhile, for it is indeed to dwell alone, where there are 
none to understand the heart. She has given up the 
■v^rorld — why is it that its pleasures are so palling to her 
now ? She sought excitement and change when she 
was engaged to Wilham B . Ah, the heart was not 



MAKKYING FOR A HOME. 189 

at rest; and it is always so — a wandering woman has 
ever a wandering heart ! She may be married or betro- 
thed, but if her heart has found a home she will ask no 
more of earthly happiness. It will make no difference to 
her whether her house be palace or cottage— whether it 
be in city or country, in the fertile valley, or the wilder- 
ness, — some of these things may be necessary to her 
health or physical comfort, but not to her happiness. The 
heart of the wife who is ever wishing to roam, ever rest- 
less for some new thing, some scene of excitement, is not 
in her home, and her affections are not her husband's ! 
She has married him for protection, or shelter, or be- 
cause " there was no other way." 

How instantly will a true love transform a woman ; 
and if women were not obliged to Liarry till this alone 
induced them, homes at least, would be exempt from 
misery. Sorrow and affliction might visit them, but 
wretchedness would be ever a stranger. He who com- 
plains that discord and darkness are the inmates of his 
dwelling, need not ask the cause ! Love has never taken 
up his abode there. 



Ellen is alone and cares not for companionships. The 
world has no temptations or seductions which would 



190 THE MYRTLE Wlli::ATH. 

have power to allure her now. She has plenty of food 
for thought, is quiet and content. 

Eugene departed on board the steamer B , and 

listen to the sacrifice he has made for such a bride. He 
will part with the home of his childhood and relinquish 
a life of ease — to a hundred slaves he wull give their 
freedom and commence a life of toil — he will leave all 
that is dear to him from early associations, and boy- 
hood's dreams, come to a strange land and struggle for 
independence, because it seems to a fair young girl, a 
more noble and more manly life ! 

Is not love stronger than ambition — is it not holier 
too? 



A few days have passed and there come rumors of a 
fearful storm at sea. It is said vessels must be lost that 
w-ere far out, and Ellen knows that Eugene could not 
have reached the port, ere the tempest swept over the 
waters. Day after day she listens, but " there are no 
tidings'* — day after day she takes the papers to her 
room to search with aching heart and streaming eyes 
for one dear name ; but it is in vain. No messenger 
ever returned from the silent deep to the bosoms which 



MARRYING FOR A HOME. 191 

were rent with anguish. All went down in the dark- 
ness. 

For Ellen there is no sympathy, for none had listened 
to the parting words which were so sweet to her, and 
her secret is still in her own bosom. In this there is 
consolation too, for now she will hear no more re- 
proaches for her fickleness, no condemnation for her in- 
fidelity. 

She is pale and sad, but no one divines the cause, and 
now again excitement becomes necessary to drown 
thought and satisfy her craving nature. She dreads to 
leave the city and its busy scenes for the quiet of her 
country home, but the spring has come and she has no 
excuse for remainino:. 



" Ellen S has returned," say the village gossips, 

*' and it is just as I told you. "William B is not 

grand enough for her now, with her new-fangled city 
notions. She hardly speaks to him, I presume she has 
a new beau — well, no good will come of it — a girl, who 
flirts as she has done, will be paid for it." 

She is indeed cold to her old lover, but she has told 
him the cause — her heart is bruised, and freely does she 
talk of the sin of her thoughtless engagement, when she 



192 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

felt scarcely a common interest for him with whom she 
was planning to spend a life. He listens in astonishment, 
for though he had not heard from her often, it was not 
many weeks since he had received a letter, with no 
change visible upon its pages. She had never written 
him love letters to be sure, she had never expressed what 
she never felt, but she had written kindly. Yet 
there was great wrong in the course she pursued. 
There was always a faintly defined purpose in her heart 
to keep up the correspondence no longer than whilst she 
was not better pleased elsewhere. She did not ac- 
knowledge this to herself then, and a stilJ greater wrong 
it was for her not to tell him the truth when her heart 
was given to another. It w^as a double betrothal, but 
she did not look upon it in this light 

"W has never ceased to love her, and forgiveness 

is very easy towards those we love. He feels sure that 
he possessed her first affection, and that the second was 
only a fancy, which she would not have indulged had 
he been present, and from which she will soon recover. 

Their friendship is renewed, and she listens again to 
the w^ords of his deeper interest. Ellen is alone with 
nothing to do. Friends cannot understand any cause 
of sadness, nor why WilHam should be rejected. She 
begins to look forward into life and think, " Oh how can 
I live through all the long weary years alone ?" The 
world considers her engaged, and he who woos her is 



MARRYING FOR A HOME. 193 

kind. She again has some one to attend her, and the 
monotony of her Hfe is varied by his calls, their rides 
and walks, and the restlessness, the longing for some- 
thing to fill the aching void is pacified, though not sub- 
dued. 

She tells him she cannot love him as a woman loves 
a husband, but this he does not understand and does 
not like to hear. She thinks she can never truly love 
another, and does 7iot think that for this reason she 
should never marry at all. She has little idea of what 
will be required of her as a wife, and does not shrink as 
she should from the responsibilities she is assuming. 

At length the vows are exchanged and she is again 
betrothed. She is betrothed! and those around her 
wonder that she is not blithe and gay with all the hope 
and happiness of a glad young heart. She endeavors to 
hide her indifference, and to seem what she is not, and 
the effort only increases the repulsion. Day after day 
she meets the man with whom she is to spend a life, and 
dreads the meeting ! Day after day he takes her hand 
and presses a kiss upon her cheek, and she recoils with 
a shudder ! 

And this is he whom she is to promise to love and 
honor and obey ! This is he to whom she is to prove 
a dutiful and loving wite ! whom she is to nurse in sick- 
ness and soothe in sorrow— with whom she is to share 
9 



194 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

prosperity and adversity, and whom " she is to love 
through all things." Oh mockery ! How many a woman's 
lips have uttered those false vow^s. How many a heart 
has felt that it was given up to a life of perjury ! 

To Ellen the reality now comes up with all a reality's 
vividness, and the bitter draught has grown more bitter 
etill. Yet what shall she do ? What else is there in 
life for her ? 

Some one is ready to exclaim, " dependence, beggary, 
anything rather thau thus to degrade herself." Ah 
yes, this is often and easily said, and would that there 
were more to act in accordance with such a spirit. 

Earnestly did I remonstrate, '' Oh what will life be 
in constant communion with one whose conversaation, 
even one hour's conversation, already'' palls ? Ellen, I 
beseech you not to do this thing — now before it is too 
late, break the oppressive chain that binds you to so 
galling a servitude. Go back — brave the scorn of the 
world and endure reproach and heartless raillery, it will 
be a pleasant and flowery path compared to the one 
upon which you are entering." 

Then came the answer, which was not hers only, but 
the answ^er which I have heard from so many, many 
lips. 

" What can I do. Oh, would that there were some 
refuge for disappointed and desolate woman — some 
position which she could occupy with honor and useful- 



MARRYING FOR A HOME. 195 

ness — some employment which would give her indepen- 
dence and absorbing interest. ' How can I sit down here 
idle to eat the bread of those who will be continually 
reproaching me for not accepting an offer which 
promised me all I ought to ask or hope. No, I will 
marry him, and he shall never know that I am not 
happy.-' 

Eour wrecks from that day Ellen S was a bride. 

There were no festivities upon the occasion. These 
would have jarred upon her feelings, and increased her 
despondency. The orange wreath was in her hair, 
and the bridal dress was fitting one for such a bride, 
and her exuberant spirits were proof to others of her 
happiness. But I had been permitted to look deeper, 
and knew her gaiety was but seeming. 

There was a bridal tour, and I knew no more of Ellen 
for four long years. A new life and many journe^nngs 
on my part prevented our meeting, and not once in all 
the time did I hear from her, so I could not judge 
whether my predictions had been verified ; and when 
I enquired concerning her I heard that she was happ}', 
at least that she was brilliant and very gay. 

Four years had passed away when we met. Oh what 
a welcome was that which a warm heart gave to one 
before whom the veil of seeming could be torn awa}', 
and to whom the flood-gates which had so long pent up 
the fount of feeling could be thrown open. Whatever 



19G THE MYRTLE WIIEATII. 

Ellen had suffered, it had not changed her heart, and 
indeed, neither time nor suffering had left any percepti- 
ble footprints upon her brow, or cheek, and they had 
not dimmed the lustre of her eye. She was not less 
brilliant and fascinating than in the days of girlhood, 
but there was a more terrible restlessness, and I had not 
gazed long before I saw that she was wretched beyond 
all that I had ever dreamed of wretchedness. 

The wife had learned how irksome, how impossible 
are love's duties where love is not, and the husband had 
learned to hate one whom duty alone prompted to kind- 
ness. In not one thing had they similar tastes, — there 
was not a single subject upon which they could con- 
verse with pleasure. He talked of news and "stocks" 
or horses, till she yawned or turned away with disgust. 
He smoked and chewed and swore, and she shrunk wath 
loathing. 

Her love of books and pictures and refined society 
was equally incomprehensible to him, and so wider and 
wider grew the distance between the paths they chose. 
He was a stranger in the circles in which she delighted 
to move, and she could not for an hour tolerate the 
ribald jests of his boon companions. She is sought by 
those who could appreciate her, and he looks with a 
jealous e3'e upon the marks of homage which she re- 
ceives. Knowino^ that she does not love him he accuses 



MARRYING FOR A HOME. J 97 

her of intrigue and infidelity, and Oh ! the bitter curses 
he heaps upon her ! 

Hour after hour and day after day she sits utterly 
paralized by the sense of her misery and humiliation, 
with not a glance of hope to brighten the years to which 
she must look forward to make up for her the sum of 
life. 

Night after night she is alone, and the morning's 
dawn still finds her watching. She does not dare to 
sleep, for any moment she may be awakened by oaths 
which curdle her blood, and he who utters them has 
• ceased to wear even the mask of human feeling — his 
hatred has become fearful, and when returned from a 
drunken revel there is, nothing to curb his revengeful 
anger, if she is not ready to minister to his wants and 
listen patiently to his withering words. 

Meekly she moves about, and slowly smooths the 
pillow for his restless slumber, yet full well he knows 
that love does not lend alacrity to her footsteps, nor its 
own sunny hue to her smile. 

" How is it possible you live," asked I, " how is it 
possible to bear up, to walk about, with such a weight 
upon you," for I w^as astonished every little while 
during the time which we were together, to see her al- 
most instantly assume her air of carele «! gaiety, w^hen 
acquaintances called, to hear her talk and nlay and ying 
as if she were a very bird in freedom anrJ ' hesomeness, 



198 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

and the moment we were alone, sink as if a millstone 
were crushing her. How is it possible for you to 
do it ?" 

Then came that ivomaii's reason^ for so many of the 
unaccountable martyrdoms which she endures, Pride ! 
" I am too proud to seem -unhappy. What a by-word 
I should soon be, were I to permit the world to look in 
upon me as you do. No, the world shall never triumph 
over me. I will suffer even to the end, and go down 
to the grave unpitied. Whilst I suffer alone I can bear 
anything, but w^ere I to become the object of pity and 
triumph I should lose my reason," 

Alas, if she could have looked forward and seen what 
she must yet pass through, reason might have reeled at 
the prospect, but the heart has an inconceivable capa- 
city for resisting the heavy pressure of woe. 

"VYe parted once more, and not again did I see her 
till the world knew more than I had ever learned of 
Ellen's calamities, and rumor w^ith her hundred, her 
myriad tongues, had exaggerated them a thousand fold. 
Now, thought I, she will surely die. But she did not. 

How she dreaded a life of loneliness and shrunk from 
a life of dependence, yet there she is, alone and depen- 
dent ! She is widowed yet her husband is alive — he is 
rich yet she is poor. She married for a home and yet 
is homeless ! • 

Now indeed has gossip found something to feed upon 



MAlir.YIHG FOR A HOME. .199 

and bow she gloats upon the miseries of her victim. 
Ellen is at first paralized, then subdued. These are the 
words which anguish forced from her heart, " Oh mer- 
ciful that all are not called to suffer alike in this world, 
for then there would be only one universal wail of 
anguish." Then she calls it a stroke of her Heavenly 
Father's rod, and talks of submission to the w^ill of Hea- 
ven. But it seems almost blasphemy to call this a dis- 
pensation of^Providence. She had disobeyed a specific 
law — she had done it voluntarily, deliberately, and dis- 
obedience brought its own punishment. There are 
afflictions which God sends, but from misery hke this 
he especially ordained that man should be free. 

When God banished Adam and Eve from Paradise, 
and decreed that they should " earn their bread by the 
sweat of their brows," he left them this one great 
blessing — to love one another ! 

To Ellen it is plain now that she committed p, crime not 
less heinous, than one the world brands with a darker 
name, when she uttered those solemn vows to which her 
lips alone could give assent. They w^ere not holy in 
the sight of Heaven. 

It was a wrong to herself, a wrong to him to whom 
she pledged a love she did not feel, and when he found 
that she was false he hated her. He had expected a 
wife, a companion, and he was disappointed, and when 
he found the smile of love would never brighten his 



200 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

fireside, he fled from it and sought compensation in 
ecenes of revelry and haunts of vice. The steps are 
few and easy from wretchedness to desperation — from 
desperation to crime, and when there is no religious 
principle to restrain, the last is almost certain to follow 
the first. 

William B sank to rise no more, and I will not 

become apologist for his sin, but it was not he alone 
who deserved condemnation. 

The beauty of this love which God gave to unite two 
in companionship for life, iS; that it is so free from the 
dross of selfishness, so disinterested and self sacrificing. 
What toil is not sweet to one who is dearer than self? 
However dark the shadows which may fall upon a 
household, if this pure ray is beaming there, it will 
never become all darkness. 

Where true love once exists, it will continue to burn 
brighter and brighter, and were it the basis of every life 
bond, the cement of every union, it would form indis- 
soluble knots, and there would not be so many broken 
links scattered throunfh the world.' 



Same MitftelJ ai]0iig|ts | p m Q}ml 



MY friends, dear readers, are the " first people in 
the City," and so of course we "attend the first 
Church." You know better than I can tell you what it 
is that constitutes the " first people" and the " first 
Church." The building itself is a mass of free stone, 
granite and marble, put together in such a way as to 
cost as much as possible. The interior is frescoed and 
furbelowed to make it attractive to the senses, and the 
windows are filled with angels, cupids, and bows and 

arrows, and birds, to prevent drowsy people from sleep 
9* (201) 



202 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

ing, for it is no part of the minister's business to keep 
them awake. 

The deep-toned bell peals on the air, and lo ! are 
gathered together a congregation, as it is called, which 
might be mistaken for walking bales of broadcloth, 
velvet and satin, which the shops had sent forth for 
advertisements, covered with garlands of ribbons, and 
feathers and flowers. 

Our minister, or pastor, or preacher, is Dr. Prim. 
His coat fits so nicely that you would not think it 
possible that it had ever been put off or on, and the tie 
of his cravat is the perfection of a " square knot." 
(How long and assiduously he must have practiced to 
attain unto such perfection !) How slowly and solemnly 
he* walks up the aisle, — what a reverential glance upward 
and around I as he seats himself on a gorgeous sofa ; 
what a perfectly satisfied air as he turns the leaves of 
" gilt and yellow-covered " Bible ! 

I gaze awhile, and if his lips did not move I should 
think he were a statue ; and if I did not see so many 
people nodding, I should think they were all statues 
around him. Strange that they can be so wicked ; and 
yet I confess if I were not so amused looking at stained 
windows, frescoed walls, and fine dresses, I should be 
nodding too. Sorry I am to be obliged to make this 
confession, but I thought perhaps it would relieve my 
conscience. Every little while I start up, determined 



SOME WICKED THOUGHTS I HAD IN CHURCH. 203 

to listen, and every little while somebody else within 
the circle of my vision starts up with the same reso- 
lution. 

It is a " good discourse," " well indoctrinated," to 
which there can be no possible objection. It is deliver- 
ed in a tone which must be proper, as it never varies, 
and all the gestures have been perfected and sanctioned 
by twenty years of trial— so how can they be lacking ? 
Now I ought to listen, and I will— and for five min- 
utes I succeed, and then find myself busy again with the 
lights and shades on the wall, and especially with the 
reflections of the stained windows. How funny that man 
looks with light blue hair, and that other man with 
deep orange whiskers. (But I must listen, and I will. 
How wicked I am.) What a perfect imitation thoso 
columns and arches are of real colunms and archer. 
What rich hangings. But those little cupids, how cun- 
ning they look. (Dear me, I have not listened— now I 
win listen.) How many people there are asleep— one 
two, three, twenty — what wicked people ; under such 
preaching, too— the celebrated Dr. Prim— so learned— 
a great theologian ; besides he is preaching the doc- 
trine of— not of salvation— everybody knows the impor- 
tance of this— but of some other ation—1 have not yet 
listened long enough to tell what ; but everybody should 
believe just as he does ; " it is vastly important." 
But, now he is through, what an electric shocTi is 



204 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

given to all these satins and velvets ! There must be 
souls underneath, after all— and if the preacher gave 
any indication of possessing a soul himself, I think he 
might influence them. But I presume it would be inde- 
corous. The first people and the " first church " must 
maintain their reputation. This is not the place for 
*' the poor to hear the Gospel preached." Oh ! no — how 
out of place a poor person would look here ! It is the 
place for the rich to vie with each other in decorating 
walls and dressing, and then to take a comfortable snooze. 
It is very wicked not to have my heart and soul alive 
with enthusiasm in the House of God. Whatever the 
minister may be, is no excuse for my apathy. Dear 
reader, I know it. This is just what I am confessing 
— ^how wicked I am ! 

But this afternoon I went where the canopy was the 
blue sky, and the walls were the hills and trees which 
God himself made. The preacher had never heard of 
Theology, but he had learned Christ and Him crucified, 
and I could not help thinking was a true reppesentation 
of Him who preached by the wayside and on the sea. 
There was no trying to listen, for all who were present 
" heard the Word gladly," and sure I am that the good 
seed sank deep into their hearts, and will bring forth 
fruit to the glory of God. 

Would there were more to " go and do likewise," and 



WICKED THOUGHTS I HAD IN CHURCH. 205 

not till then will there be a '' shaking among the dry 
bones " in this iniquitous City — and not till then will the 
multitudes turn unto God. 



Far differently " Thanksgiving day," 
Was welcomed in my childhood's years, 

When sound of mirth and gladsome play, 
Burst forth from hearts unchilled by fears 

When every lip was wreathed with smiles, 
And clustered on each sunny brow, 

The dawning hopes which youth beguiles 
And sweetly beamed affection's glow 

(206) 



THANKSGIVING. 

No shadow crossed our fancy's gleams, 
Nor mist obscured our goWen sky, 

No sadness troubled life's young dreams, 
No cloud of sorrow flitted by. 

Where are they now — those joyous ones 
That erst were wont to circle here, 

The happy looks and kindly tones 

Which gave the board its brightest cheer ? 

Ah ! time with rapid flight hath passed, 
The houshold group is scattered wide ; 

Our youthful sports and pleasures fast 
Have floated down life's ebbing tide. 



But though in months and years grown old, 
And doomed diverging paths to roam. 

Will absence make the heart grow cold, 
Or chill the gushing fount of love ? 

Oh no, with fond imaginings 

They'll linger near the spot once more, 
And swiftly borne on memory's wings. 

Will Uve again their pastimes o'er. 



207 



208 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

Yes, thought unchanged, will quickly roam. 

And gladly hail this hallowed day, 
Dear absent ones will think of home, 

And we of loved ones, far away. 



Oh may we meet once more around 
The hearthstone of our early years, 

If but to breathe each farewell sound, 
And mingle here our parting tears. 



®&0ttgljts at t\t €xti\mimrdm. 



THE fountains, the fountains, are they not beautiful, 
are they not poetical ? Surely he must have been 
a poet who designed the fountains ! They are often 
compared to showers of diamonds, but no motive power 
could give to millions of diamonds and rubies, the beauty 
and grace of the water-drop's dance. 

How delightful to turn aside from the dusty street, 
the hurry and bustle of the busy throng, to refresh, 
not the body, but the soul at the fountains. It is ele- 
vating, ennobling, to gaze on beauty. It is everywhere 

(209) 



210 THE MYRTLE WllEATII. 

diffused in the works of nature, and the eye which does 
not discover it, and revel in it, is itself without bright- 
ness, and the soul which is not expanded by the moun- 
tain in its lofty grandeur, and made gentle by the sofb 
features of the quiet landscape, must be dead to every 
noble impulse. 

The parks are the oases in the desert of city life, and 
the promoting of physical health is but a small item in 
the amount of good which they accomplish. How many 
thousands of hearts are gladdened by the daily sight 
of something fresh, and cool, and bright. Here the 
zephyr comes hke a ministering angel to fan the fevered 
brow, and the music of waters charms the weary spirit 
and bears away its burden. 

In the early morning I often meet a young maiden, 
who seems to come to gather strength for her day of 
toil, or a lone student, his face '* sicklied o'er with the 
pale cast of thought," inhaling its freshness, and with 
that freshness inspiration. 

At noon there is a motley crowd of all ages and con- 
ditions, but there is never rudeness, nor even levity, 
wuthin the charmed circle of the water spirits. Coun- 
tenanceg which look morose and haggard as they ap 
preach, brighten as they linger, and depart gilded with 
the sunshine of cheerfulness. In the evening, two and 
two they wander by, or gather in little groups, and upon 
all, the same healthy and life-giving influence is shed. 



THE CBOTON FOUNTAIN. 211 

A blessing upon those who turned the Croton from 
its channel and bid it bless so many thousand and ten 
tljousand homes, and still stop by the wayside to dim- 
ple and sparkle, and gleam, for the millions more whose 
spirits are thereby purified from the dross of care, and 
pinioned anew for the conflict of life. 



'' 3\t is a |as!]ianaWi Whmm, anJy m^\t ml U k 



WHO performs the duties of wife and mother and 
house keeper in the home of the woman of fash- 
ion ? Why, Margaret and Mary and Jane, who have 
heen hired for that purpose. Who washes and dresses 
that little boy and curls his glossy ringlets? His 
mother? Oh, no, this would not be genteel, and there- 
fore it is left to a servant. Who teaches him to read, 
and talks with him of all the beautiful things which 
God has made? His mother? Oh, no, she has not 

time for such duties. She is out " airing" or prome- 

(212) 



SHE IS A FASHIONABLE WOMAN. 213 

Hading, or shopping or attending the " receptions " of 
her friends. 

Who puts liim to bed and hears him lisp his evening 
prayers ? " Wliy ^Margaret, — this is her business, she 
is paid for it." His mother is at the ball or opera, or 
Bonae evening entertainment. Every morning he is 
brought to kiss her, and every evening, if she is at home, 
to say good night. Is not this enough ? 

This is the colloquy I have often heard in that house. 
" Whom do you love best, Willie, my son ?" '' Mar- 
garet." " No, no, you must not say Margaret, say 
Mamma." "Mamma." <'And whom next best?" 
"Margaret." "No, no, you must not say Margaret, 
say Papa. " 

Thus the kind care of Margaret wins his love, and the 
selfish mother teaches him to reiterate these falsehoods, 
instead of performing for him those duties which would 
ensure her his affection. 

" But her home is in very nice order." Because she 
has plenty of money to pay those who know how to 
keep it so. She knows how to order a dinner, — she has 
learned what constitutes a " genteel breakfast," a ton 
dinner and a " fashionable tea." 

Margaret calls her in the morning and dresses her 
hair — hangs up the dresses she has scattered about the 
night before, picks up her curl papers, and folds her 



214 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

night gown, — listens to her fretting and makes no 
answer, tells her how becoming her morning dress is and 
how she has not grown a day older since she knew her ! 
After breakfast she lounges in the library and reads the 
advertisements of " the most fashionable and splendid 
assortments," " the Parisian Modes " and then studies the 
last page of the last Magazine ! 

Then Margaret is called to dress her, and then to 
prepare her a lunch^ which must be carried up three 
flights of stairs, because it is not genteel to eat lunch 
where breakfast and dinner are eaten. Then the " car- 
riage is ordered round " and she " takes a drive," does 
up her day's shopping, and returns to sleep away her 
fatigue before dinner, during which ceremony she 
relates her adventures, and "one day is like every 
other." 

What a useful woman ; how perfectly she understands 
the duties of her " appropriate sphere." " She never 
departs from the true dignity and womanly reserve 
which are the ornament of her sex." What a contempt 
she has for those whose names are in the papers, and on 
title pages. She wonders how a woman can be willing 
to be public, and doesn't wonder that men are afraid of 
literary ladies ! 

How gracefully she sits in the great chair and rocks 
herself, with her tiny foot in a satin slipper, just touch- 



SHE IS A FASIlIONxYBLE WOMAN- 215 

ing the floor, and her arm dressed in velvet and satin 
and ]a(!e, resting upon the damask covered cushion. 
She glances at the great mirror with evident compla- 
cency, and never wonders that she had a dozen oflfers 
and is able to boast twice that number of conquests. 
She will be sure and not have her daughter know too 
much about books and such things, it will spoil her mar- 
ket, though she hesitates not to initiate her into all the 
mysteries of French millinery and fashionable etiquette. 
She is evidently a model woman — whilst surrounded 
with luxury and splendor, but when the firm of B. & Co. 
fails and she is transferred to "■ lodgings''' — dear ! what a 
whining, fretful, uncomfortable creature she is trans- 
formed into — her husband " wishes ivomen were not 
such fools,'''' and a scene follows, to which even the pen 
of a literary lady could not do justice ! 



f |a«gljte m }I]c |rairie in f ping. 



SOME time ago, I happened in a little village where 
dwelt an old lady, who had been raised by wealth 
to a position somewhat above the one for which birth 
and education had fitted her. She had recently taken 
a journey to Buffalo, and to the kind enquiries of her 
friends, when she returned, about her trip, she answered 
that she had had a pleasant time, and enjoyed herself 
very much. At the time I met her, in a little party, 
some one happened to mention Niagara, and she quietly 

remarked, that she went there while at Buffalo, upon 

(216) 



THOUGHTS ON THE PRAIRIE. 217 

which several exclaimed, ^ Why, Misb. C , you never 

told us you had been to Niagara. What did you think 
of it ? Do tell us about it," &c, &c. " Why," said 
the old lady, " it was kind o' high and kind o' white, 
and made an awful noise !" I have often been reminded 
of this description, since it became my duty to describe 
a prairie. Not that it would apply, for I should need 
one exactly opposite. *' It is kind o' flat, and kind 
o' yellow, and there is an awful stillness." My first 
impression was similar to that produced by the 
great rivers, — an idea of vastness, of expanse, which 
seemed to give wings to my spirit. I never felt so free, 
and was all the time inclined to take a long breath, and 
really felt as if I were expanding, myself, soul and 
body. 

Then came the monotony, the everlasting sameness. 
What a relief would be a mountain, what an object of 
beauty a little hill. But in vain you stretch your eyes 
in every direction, hoping to see something rise up to 
vary the scene. There is no change. But it is not the 
season to behold the prairies in all their glory — to see 
the tall grass bending to the gentle breeze — the flowers, 
the tasseled corn, and the waving grain. So I will 
wait till rosy June appears to crown the earth with gar- 
lands before I bid farewell to beauty. 

Peoria is to be another Queen City. It slopes back 

from the Illinois very much as Cincinnati does from the 
10 



218 fHE MYKTLE WREATH. 

Ohio, and the bluffs form a beautiful background to the 
picture. It is not twenty years since the first cabin was 
built, and now you may look down upon a busy town, 
with churches and palaces and. gardens — the river on 
which are floating a hundred steamers, and a wharf 
which welcomes the commerce of the world. 

One of the richest men in the place came from Old 
England a penniless youth, and in company with an 
Irishman, worked his way from the Atlantic port to the 
banks of the Illinois. Having selected their farm? 
they tilled it with their own hands, and for two year^ 
lived alone in a house of their own building, and with 
no other food than bread of their own baking, made of 
flour and water, without salt or yeast or other cooking 
apparatus than the bright coals. By this time the 
Irishman was weary, and left his friend to climb the 
ladder alone. And he was soon at the top ; his table 
set and waited upon in the style of the English gentry, 
and his house furnished with true comfort and elegance. 
*' America," he says, " is the country for the poor." Yet 
her soil will not nourish the indolent, though there is 
no species of honest toil which she will not freely reward. 
I wonder that so many young men^sit down content in 
the cellars and garrets and dark counting rooms of your 
great cities, when half the labor in the free air and be- 
neath the blue sky, would give them health and afflu- 
ence, and a home of their own, and happy faces 



THOUGHTS ON THE PRAIRIE. 219 

around them. Could my voice reach them, I would 
say, come forth — be ye no longer hewers of wood, and 
drawers of water, but free and independent lords of the 
soil. 



^t laniils ,|\0M, 



IT was a long time since I had made a fashionable 
call, yet I had a few acquaintances who were entitled 
to the appellation of fashionable people, whom I valued, 
and really thought I should like to see. So, on a bright 
cold morning, (it is always morning in the city till even- 
ing,) I put on the best I had, and made myself look as 
well as I could, and schooled all my muscles and nerves 
into obedience to fashionable rules, and, though with 
much trembling, lest I should forget and speak and act 
in my own natural way, rang at the door of a fashion- 
able friend. 

(220) 



THE FAMILY ROOM. 221 

A bright-looking black boy appeared as it opened, 
and, without speaking, held out his hand for my card 
to carry to his mistress. Alas ! I had forgotten it ; for 
my calls are usually made where the servants know 
me too well to need any explanation ; so, with as little 
stammering as possible, I spoke it, and saw the look 
which said, " Not much matter for her, she is not the 
ton;' as he opened the drawing room door, and turned 
away to announce me. 

Fifteen minutes I waited for any further proof that 
the house was inhabited, and endeavored to improve 
the time in quickening my powers of observation, and 
getting ready for the greeting. The "parlor," of course, 
was " done up in papers," as is the case with all fashion- 
able parlors ; and like the " papers" of the toilet they 
were " taken down" only on some great occasions. So 
theve was opportunity for the exercise of my imagina- 
tion, and I confess I am always very curious to know 
what is under all those brown covers which hne the walls 
of drawing-rooms, though I probably should blush with 
confusion if any body should see me peeping under- 
neath. 

I looked at the portraits and the pictures, and fearing 
that this was not quite proper, I sat down. But the 
unnatural position of sitting so very prim, and keeping 
my lips in proper speaking order, began to be painful ; 
and, like an imprisoned child, I really began to think of 



222 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

mischief as a relief. I moved from the sofa to the chair, 
and from the chair to the tete-a-tete ; and at length could 
resist the temptation no longer, and lifted the corner of 
the drapery, which I supposed was shrouding all beau- 
tiful things from my view. 

Quickly did I replace it, however ; but having con- 
fessed my own departure from rectitude, I will not 
betray the folly of others — it is sufficient that it was 
neither damask nor satin, nor velvet that I saw, and I 
am sure it was nothing that the air or the sunshine 
would spoil. 

But at length the rustle of silks fell on my ear, and a 
lady in rich and gay attire walked in, and sazc? she was 
happy to see me, and I said " Thank you. It is a 
pleasant morning." " Very pleasant !" and then a 
pause. A paralytic stroke could not have made me 
more thoroughly dumb ; and I ask, " Why is it ? I 
know there is neither wisdom, nor learning, nor supe- 
rior goodness in her who chills me. I will not yield to 
it." Eallying, I make a remark, which is answered in 
monosyllables, and another which meets the same re- 
sponse. What shall I do ? There is not a book in the 
room, nor a platcj nor anything to which I can resort to 
open my lips. It is not genteel to have anything in a 
parlor but what is dark, and massive, and rich, and 
seems to say, '' touch not." What shall I do ? If I 
had just come from the green woods, I could not feel or 



THE FAMILY BOOM. 223 

act more awkwardly, and a sense of inferiority actually 
creeps over me in the presence of ignorance and stu- 
pidity. 

But there is one genteel rule which comes to my re- 
lief—a genteel call must be short ; and though the mo- 
ments seem interminable, they do at length wear away, 
and the last word is said, and the last bow, and the last 
smile are given ; the porter opens the door, when I have 
the additional pleasure of seeing a black porter look 
upon me with a smile of contempt, and I am in the 
street again, in the free air, where my elasticity is re- 
stored, and what is more, my feeling of conscious worth. 

But I will enter one more parlor before I go home, 
though I resolve never again to try to enter a fashiona- 
ble one. 

The nest door at which I rung, is that of a friend, 
and the tidy, smiling-looking girl who opens it knows 
that I am not come " to make a call^'' but to see the 
family, and she ushers me into iko family-room. Oh, has 
it not a pleasant sound — the family-room — and what a 
cozy look it has ! There is a bright fire in the grate, 
and by the window there is a book-case and a bird, and 
though everything is neat, the chairs and tables do 
not sit up so prim and stately, forbidding you to sit at 
ease. 

But more than all, in the great chair by the fire is 
a grandmother ! Who would think a genuine family- 



224 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

room thoroughly furnished, unless there was in the co- 
ziest corner, and in the best chair, a grandmother ? And 
this one is the perfection of her class. Her dress has 
never been altered for fashion's freaks ; for fifty years it 
has been cut by the same pattern, and her cap has had 
the same broad frills " crimped with a knife," and the 
same broad black kerchief has been neatly pinned over 
her shoulders, and the same expression of benevolence, 
and kindness, and motherly love, has beamed upon her 
countenance ; and I never saw her without her specta- 
cles and knitting-work. My first impulse when I come 
into the room is to put my arms around her neck and 
kiss her withered cheek, and then to sit on a low stool by 
her side and listen to her gentle words, for they are full 
of wisdom. 

The children, too, belong to the familj^-room, and 
here they are hopping, and skipping and jumping — 
Henry, and Mary, and Lucy — and a most pleasing sight 
it is to see the terms on which they are with the good 
old lady in the corner. Now Henry has thrown him- 
self upon her lap, and down comes the knitting-work, 
and down come the stitches too ; but Grandmother 
says, " No matter ;" for their love, and confidence, and 
childish freedom, are more to her than all the stitches in 
her stocking. 

Now Mary is climbling up to " hug her," and though 
she does not feel a little troubled to have her newly-ironed 



THE FAMILY KOOM. 225 

frills all tumbled even by those loving little arms, when 
the mother remonstrates, it is *' No matter " again; for 
Grandmother has learned, that were she to repulse them 
for every trifle, it would very soon be, " G-randmother 
doesn't love us," and " Grandmother is so afraid," and 
then they would not love her, and she would lose her 
influence over them, and the " family-room " would lose 
its air of joyousness and freedom, and all for what ? — 
for a cap border and a few stitches. 

Now this is not such a grandmother as that. Every 
little head is welcome to rest on her bosom, and little 
hands may soil her apron or drop her stitches, and meet 
with no reproof; but little hearts are not permitted to 
indulge in naughtiness, and little lips must never pout 
or speak unkindly ; for then gandmother is sure to look 
sad, and a shadow on her countenance is a reproof 
which they dread more than any rod. 

On the table is the great family basket ; who does not 
know just how it looks with its stacks of lineji, and 
stockings and frocks, and pinafores, fresh from the 
laundry, all ready to be mended ? And near by is the 
little basket, with its cards of silk and spools of cotton, 
and nkeins of parti-colored thread, an old thimble, and a 
bright new one, an ample '' houseivife^''^ with the needles 
all nicely arranged, and furnished with every other con- 
venience a good housekeeper is sure to possess, and a 
pretty little needle book for show by its side I 
10* 



226 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

On a little table in the corner is the family Bible, not 
bound in gilt, and placed there for ornament, but in a 
stout, hardy dress that will bear use ; and morning and 
evening I know it is taken by the youthful father, while 
all are gathered round to hear, and opened at some 
portion which they can understand, and read with a few 
impressive comments, that have an influence all the day 
upon the family circle, not repressing mirth, but hallow- 
ing it ; and then as the holy book is constantly before 
their eyes, and always in the same place, it becomes a 
silent monitor, reminding them that God is ever present. 

Every thing speaks of comfort ; and the mother is the 
perfection of a lady and the perfection of a mother. 
The children are bright, and active, and full of frolic ; 
but I have been here many times, and never saw them 
rude. They unite, better than almost any I have ever 
seen, freedom, and joyousness, and childish manners, 
with the propriety and respectful deportment of maturer 
years. 

But though we are in the room with Grandmother 
and the children, and the great basket, our conversation 
is not of housework, nor servants, nor any of the petty 
details of housekeeping; the lady who is the presiding 
genius is familiar with all these things, and devotes to 
them all the attention they need, but is not engrossed 
with them ; and she unites the qualities of a highly-cul- 
tivated woman better than almost any other I know — 



THE FAMILY ROOM. 227 

graceful and easy in her manners, familiar with books 
,'ind all passing events, efficient, full of kindly sympatiiy 
and most emphatically endowed with common sense 
Iler " price is indeed above rubies." I never spend an 
hour in that pleasant room without feeling refreshed, 
without having my mind expanded and my heart made 
better. 

But her ^mr/o?- is not ^' done up in papers " nor 
'' brown linen," and no chill creeps over you, or freezes 
your lips, if you hnger there. It contains pictures, and 
music, and books; and the children are not entirely 
banished, and even Grandmother is sometimes there : 
but never did I meet children or a grandmother in one 
of those stately drawing-rooms such as I pictured 
first. The little ones would be sure to leave their foot- 
prints ; and what a rebuke the good old lady wath her 
knitting-work would be, to the idle loungers who drop in 
to kill time, and talk about nothing I 



@ne 0f fife's €m\\i$l$. 



4 Cl* /rUST you part with it ?" " I mu^t, it is the last 
JlTjL I have.'* " I do not like to take it, but perhaps 
you will some day wish to redeem it ; if you should, 
remember that it is yours." There was no answer, and 
I turned to see by whom those few words so full of sor- 
row were spoken. " I must, it is the last I have !" 

I was standing by the -show-case in a Jeweller's store, 
and she who had come to make so sad a bargain, was 
evidently one who had experienced great reverses — she 
seemed the wreck of a lady of rank and fashion. She 

(228) 



ONE OF LIFE'S CONTRASTS, 229 

was not yet old, and the deep lines upon her temple 
and about her mouth were not such cureless lines as 
time is accustomed to draw ; they were sharper and 
more deep-set ; neither was the lurid color about the 
eye the tinge of time— it was the stain of tears that had 
been wrung from the heart. Her form was not bowed^ 
but it was shrunk, and the muscles were rigid. How 
the blue veins stood out upon her wasted hand ! Her 
dress was the remnant of what had once been a rich 
and costly silk, and a faded shawl hung loosely upon 
her shoulders. Her eye had the restless wandering 
expression of suspicion— she was in haste lest she 
should be recognized. 

She had suffered, but suffering had not produced 
humility and the Christian's quiet resignation. The 
thought of the past was burning and bitterness, and the 
future was full of terror. 

All this I saw at a glance, as she turned away, and 
with a hurried step went down the street. 

It was a watch with which she had parted, and she 
took the money in exchange with a stealthy grasp and 
the dark shadow of mingled shame, revenge and hatred 
came over her once handsome face, and the deep blush 
of humiliation mantled her cheek. She had committed 
no crime, but poverty in her eyes had ever been a dis- 
grace, and changes and reverses were something to 
hate the world for. 



230 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

"When she had departed I looked up for an explana- 
tion, and the grey-haired man behind the desk replied, 
" Just twenty years ago I sold her that watch for a 
hundred dollars, and she was then worth a hundred 
thousand. One by one she has parted with every arti- 
cle of jewelry in her possession, and when the money 
for this is gone, she must depend on charity or begin a 
life of labor, for which her early life and education have 
totally unfitted her." 

" And what reverse has brought her to this ?" I asked, 
thinking that some failure in business or crash in tho 
money market must have brought so great a change. 

" Nothing but reckless expenditure and a life of ex- 
travagance. She was early left a widow with a hand- 
some fortune and one daughter. She had no knowledge 
of business and kept no accounts. * It was stupid work 
to keep accounts, and she was sure there was no need 
of it.' Her money was well invested, and needed no 
particular care except what brokers and bankers were 
willing to bestow. But the income was not suflScient to 
support her in the luxury in which she had been living, 
and so by little and little she trespassed upon the prin- 
cipal, till it was gone — wasted upon follies which 
brought her no real pleasure and reduced her at length 
to what you have seen." 

" But had she no friends to remonstrate with her and 
point out to her the end of such a course?" When did 



ONE OF LIFE S CONTBASTS. 231 

remonstrance ever have any influence upon an ignorant 
wilful woman ? She could not understand the differ- 
ence between principal and interest, and would not be- 
lieve there could be any exhaustion to a hundred thou- 
sand dollars ! 

Ah yes, and here I blushed with shame and indigna- 
tion at the way in which hundreds and thousands of 
just such, women are educated. Of what use is it to 
them to understand about money affairs ? It is their 
business to mind their households and children, and not 
meddle with " things above their comprehension." And 
this is an illustration of the good effects of such 
training. 

" Where does she live ?" I asked. " She and her 

daughter occupy two rooms in B street, and are 

not as yet without the comforts of life, and still attempt 
to keep up an appearance of style and plenty. I meet 
them now and then with something of the air and 
dress of former days, but poverty is fast creeping upon 
them. Mislortune has had none of the chasteinng in- 
fluence which we love to see — the proud spirit is only 
prouder — is chafed and fretted, but not subdued. 

*' Where does all the money come from ?" is a ques- 
tion I do often ask myself; where does all the money 
come from that buys these costly dresses and those 
bracelets of gold, and diamonds and precious stones ? 
I lino-er at the windows and wonder — I meet the 



232 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

throngs in the crowded street, and wonder — I stop to 
pity the poor blind beggar by the wayside — to talk with 
some Uttle girl with tattered frock and dishevelled hair, 
and'wonder why there must be such painful contrasts at 
every step through life ! 

"When I heard this story a part of the mystery w^as 
solved, and when not many months afterwards I met 
that face so haggard, and recognized the restless glance 
of that sunken eye, I knew that there must be a sadder 
tale — I stopped in to see the grey-haired man again. He 
was there behind the desk just where I left him. I re- 
called the incidents of my first interview by recurring 
to the watch and asking if it had ever been redeemed ; 
'' Oh no, I did not expect it would be redeemed." " Do 
you know what has become of the poor woman whose 
story you related to me ?" 

*' Ah yes, it is the story which might be stereotyped 
concerning all like her — " she is lost" — " and her daugh- 
ter ?" " Lost, lost," repeated solemnly the grave old 
gentleman. 

The census tells us that there are thirty thousand just 
such " lost ones" in the streets of this great city, and 
that love of dress was the destroying passion, and the 
street display the first step to ruin. 

With a heavy heart I again went forth. Again I lin- 
gered at the windows and looked at the glittering trea- 
sures and thought " How many, Oh how many will be 



ONE OF life's contrasts. 233 

allured by these to barter all that makes hfe precious," 
— to sell all happiness on earth and in Heaven for the 
baubles of an hour. 

" Lost, lost." Only a httle while ago they were in 
the dawn of life and health and beauty, with the bright 
visions of girlhood, and the holy hopes of womanhood 
shedding their pure rays upon their pathway, and now 
they are gone down to darkness. 

" Lost, lost.*' Oh, what can fall so sadly upon the 
heart of woman as these two words concerning one, 
whom a hallowed influence upon her childhood, and a 
right education in future years, might have made an 
honored wife and mother, a useful member of the living 
Church on earth, and an heir of glory. 

" Lost, lost." They are more sad than any death- 
knell that peals upon the ear, for it is not on earth alone 
and by earthly judges that they are repeated — they will 
be repeated by the Great Judge at the great day when 
the doom of millions is sealed forever. 

" Lost, lost," Oh let them echo in every ear, and 
knock at every heart, till something is done to rescue 
these lost ones, and bring them hack to life, and more is 
done to prevent them from entering the broad way that 
leads to death. 



%\t Italing, 



I KNOW the hand that dealt it, 
And know the stroke was kind, 

For One alone can wound us, 
And He alone can bind. 



"Whene'er he sends the angel 

To earth with sorrow's stings, 
New leo:ions are commissioned 



With heaUng^ on their whigs. 



(234) 



THE HEALING. 235 

How sweet to bruised spirits 

The balm they kindly pour, 
While leading us to Gilead, 

Where we may gather more. 

Thus through the arid desert 

The living waters flow, 
And the Palm and Olive o'er us 

Their cooling shadows throw 



And thus though weary, weary, 

The pilgrimage of life, 
While angels hover o'er us 

We may glory in the strife. 

And hope is pointing upward, — 
On wings of faith we soar, 

To the land where sorrow's shadows 
AYill never darken more. 



Oh, sweet that home in Heaven- 
The peace it will impart — 

Where there is no more healing, 
No bindins: of the heart. 



strange fljmp | |Hto urn m)i \}m)j. 



"r)OWER is corrupting," says the Politician. 

JL " Power is corrupting," says the foe to hierar- 
chies. " Good men, the best men, should not be en- 
trusted with absolute power." " Power is corrupting," 
says the enemy of slavery, " men should not be permit- 
ted the absolute control of human beings ; however good 
the master may be, he wall be tempted to indulge in 
tyranny, if there is nothing external to restrain him." 
These are sentiments which I have often heard 

expressed by one w^ho still exclaims, " I will be master 

(236) 



STRANGE THINGS I HAVE SEEN AND HEARD. 237 

in my own house ; those who live with me shall obey 
me." And the obedience which is required of a wife is 
as servile as that which is rendered by any bond slave. 

To his daughter he says, " Whilst you are in my 
house you will do as I say, if you are a hundred years 
old ;" not because she would not obey willingly and 
happily, but because there is such pleasure in exacting 
obedience. All would gladly do right of their own 
accord, but that would not be sufficient ; they must be 
compelled ; they must feel in every nerve, and bone and 
muscle, that they are subject to the will of another. To 
order, thwart and torture, is a peculiar pleasure, and I 
am fully convinced, is not enjoyed by Princes, and 
Popes, and slave-owners alone. 

I have seen the staunchest advocates of " Woman's 
rights " and " human freedom," exercise the most brutal 
tyranny over wives and daughters. I have seen a quiet 
Christian woman beaten, by a man who was ever rail- 
ing against oppression. I have seen the marks of an 
inch cahle on the shoulders of a grown up daughter, 
placed there by a man who was ever uttering anathemas 
against those, who, for any reason applied the lash to 
those over whom the law gave them power ! 

I have seen a little girl drop lifeless under the inflic- 
tion of the rod, which was used not merely as an in- 
strument of punishment, but to prove that he who 



238 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

wielded it had a right to do what he pleased with his 
own. 

If those who rule with such authority lived where 
human beings are property, they would exult in its pe- 
culiar privileges, and triumph in the wrongs they could 
commit with impunity. 

*' Power is indeed corrupting." I have seen a young 
girl dragged from room to room by her hair, beaten and 
trodden upon, for only a slight offence, by one whom 
she called mother, because tyranny was sweet — to in- 
spire fear more pleasant than to inspire love. 

I have seen in many families, wives and daughters. 
and sisters, afraid with a fear not less slavish than that 
which inspires the most abject among those who are 
bought and sold, and all because those who held it do- 
lighted in swaying the iron sceptre and ruling with an 
iron rod. And those who are ruled are expected meekly 
to endure ; their lips must be even wreathed in smiles, 
and breathing gladness for those who have crushed all 
gladness from their hearts. " Power is corrupting," 
but it is not Kings and Politicians alone whom it cor- 
rupts. 



^xlllx^ limJrmt m)i Wxslt to m ^xM$ Stoto, 



i i T\E AE me !" What others in our language are 
\j so often and so thoughtlessly uttered as these 
two words ? I had heard them a million of times, till 
they fell on my ear like any other expression of no indi- 
vidual import. 

But this morning I was standing by the side of one, 
whom I knew to have experienced in a few short years 
a long life of agony, when suddenly he bounded from 
me to grasp the hand of a pale, gentle being, in whose 
face was also written suffering, while at the same time 
♦ (239) 



240 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

burst from his lips these little words, in a tone that star- 
tled me, and sent the blood rushing, torrent-like, from 
my heart, whilst his own seemed breaking by one of 
those blows which recollection deals in its power to call 
np the past and set it in instant, and terrible array be- 
fore us. 

" Dear me 1" The words were nothing, but never 
before had I learned the magic power of the living 
voice. I looked a moment and understood it all. He 
had been a father, whose love for a gifted and beau- 
teous daughter, was a passion such as even few fathers 
feel. In the bloom of girlhood's beauty she was stricken 
with disease, during which he watched her with a devo- 
tion which was almost madness, and when the grave re- 
ceived her, sank a prey to grief, w'hich wasted him, till 
he, too, was on the verge of the tomb. 

Then another and another cord was broken, till not a 
link was left to bind him to earth, yet still he lived. 

Those whom he was greeting had been the guardi- 
ans of his idol treasure, his friends through all the long 
weeks of suffering and woe ; comforters in the hour of 
darkness, and counsellors when there seemed no hope. 
Months and many miles of land and sea, had separated 
them, and here they met. 

" Dear me !" It was a common-place expression at 
such a time, and yet the tone had in it more of intensity 
— of deep and varied emotion, than any in music or in 



THRILLING INCIDExVIT. 241 

eloquence, that ever had before struck upon my ear. 
There was a parent's "deep, strong, deathless love ;" 
there was the unutterable anguish of broken ties ; there 
was gratitude for those deeds of loving kindness, and 
joy and gladness at the meeting. 

Oh, the power of memory ! how quickly the past, with 
all its sable train, passed on before him. The wasting 
sickness upon those lovely forms ; the cold relentless 
hand that snatched them from his embrace ; the shroud ; 
the pall, and mourning groups, and then the crushed 
and broken spirit, struggling with its speechless woe. 

I afterwards sought the Artist's studio, to look upon 
the faces of the lost and loved ones, the bright yet sor- 
rowful vision of whom had been thus painfully recalled. 
How beautiful, how beautiful ! I wondered not that 
round that Father's heart had so closely twined affec- 
tion's cords, that it was rent and shattered when they 
snapped. I wondered not that earth had grown a 
waste, and life a wilderness to him, round whom had 
once gathered that lovely group, now "gone — all 
gone," except as his magic pencil has preserved them. 

A family — the favorites of genius ! Never was the 

lyre tuned more sweetly than by that poet mother, and 

not less richly gifted were the daughters, who lived to 

an age to exhibit the development of their powers. At 

four years old the}^ began to lisp in rhyme, and as the 

dew-moistened flower exhales the perfume, so were 
U 



242 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

their spirits redolent with the sweet breath of poesy. 
Pure and highly cultivated were their minds, and not 
less lovely were the fruits which the culture of the heart 
yielded — the graces of the spirit. 

And all that was beautiful in expression, graceful in 
form, and striking in feature, still lives, by the more 
wonderful genius of the artist Father. The canvass 
breathes and speaks as you gaze. 

It w^as indeed a sight to make a seraph weep; a 
family so lovely and so gifted, thus early removed from 
a sphere where they would have shed such holy 
radiance ; and yet how bright and glorious must be that 
little band tuning their golden harps in the angel choir 
above. 

He is left, that bereaved and stricken, yet manly 
spirit, to tread the world's rough path alone. There 
can be no greater sorrow for him on earth, and it is 
kind to pray that the weary pilgrimage may be short, 
and they all united, a " whole family in Heaven." 



|a.OT f ittlc I!ol)fit 



POOR little Robert ! And why is he poor little Ro- 
bert ? He is dressed well and warmly, and he lives 
•in that large handsome house, an only son — an only 
child. His father is rich, and loves him, as fathers are 
prone to love only sons, and he has many friends and 
enough to eat and drink. He also has many handsome 
toys— a rocking-horse and blocks in abundance, rail- 
cars and steamboats and ships— and yet whenever I see 
him, I cannot help saying, poor Robert ! 

See how pale he looks, and what a mature expression 



244 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

of sadness rests upon his face. I say, " Good morning 
Eobertj how do you do this morning ?" " I am very 
well," he answers, but he does not smile, and speaks 
with a mournful tone, as if his little heart was heavy. 

I never see him playing with children, and in th© 
street he walks with the sober heavy step of sorrow. 
Almost every day I meet him, wandering alone from 
street to street and sometimes he comes and sits upon 
the doorstep, especially on Sunday mornings, with his 
little hands clasped across his breast, and his head 
drooping, w^hile his full dark eye is fixed upon the sky 
or gazing upon vacancy. 

Poor little Robert ! Very early in the morning he is 
sent to school with a little basket on his arm, which con- 
tains his dinner, though the school room is but a little 
way from home, and all the long noo7i he lingers about 
with a listless air, never joining in the merry sports of 
other children, though always gentle and kind. 

" AYhy do you stay all day when you are so little 
ways from home ?" ask the children of Eobert. " Mo- 
ther says I must," he replies, and a deeper shade of 
sadness spreads over his pale face. 

At night, when those of his own age are permitted 
to leave school early because they are little ones and get 
weary, Robert stays, though he looks more weary than 
the rest. 

<' Come Robert, why do you not go home?" exclaims 



POOR LITTLE ROBERT. 245 

some merry-hearted boy who is full of glee, and whose 
heart is bounding with joy at the thought of freedom 
and a happy home. 

* Mother says I must stay till school is done," Eo- 
bert answers, while his eyes fill with tears. And when 
he goes home there is not a gleam of pleasure upon 
his face ; he does not leap the steps with the light bound 
of childhood, and hesitates before he rings the bell, as 
if he dreaded to enter. 

Poor little Eobert ! his mother dreads to see him en- 
ter too. She cannot bear the noise of children, though 
it seems to me that any noise little Eobert is inclined to 
make would not disturb a mouse. She cannot permit 
him to go into the parlor because he might " put things 
out of place," and the room would not be in order for 
callers. She cannot have him in the nursery, because 
his steamboats and railroads make her nervous, " she is 
so delicate." She cannot have him in her room, because 
almost every night when he returns from school there 
are dresses and ribbons and laces, laid out for the eve- 
ning ball or Opera, and his childish curiosity might 
tempt him to touch them. He is not allowed to go in- 
to the kitchen, because " he must not associate with ser- 
vants and acquire their vulgar ways." 

His mother cannot talk with hirn because "he asks so 
many questions and is so tiresome." He must not cling 
to her and cUmb upon her knees, because "he ' musses ' 



246 THE MYKTLE WREATH 

lier collars and spoils her dresses." When it is dark his 
lather comes, and for a little while he is petted and ca- 
ressed, and feels that he is loved ; but he is soon hur- 
ried away to some scene of excitement, and- Robert 
goes to bed and cries himself to sleep. 

In the morning he does not get up crowing and sing- 
ing and whistling, and making a " terrible noise," as 
mothers know^ that boys are wont to do. No, Robert 
rises very quietly, and steals away to some corner, al- 
most as if he were guilty, wishing his papa would come 
down, for in his presence he feels a little freedom. But 
his papa sleeps very late because he is out long into the 
night, and when he does make his appearance, he is in 
such a hurry for his breakfast that he may "go down 
town," that he has no time to devote to Robert. Be- 
sides, he has no idea of the desolation of the little boy's 
heart. He supphes him with books and " playthings." 
and sends him to school, and though he sometimes 
thinks " he is not like other boys " and " fear he is 
dull," the mother has no such fears, and he is left again 
to his solitude. 

Poor little Robert ! could he only open his heart, 
and pour out its sorrows, he might learn to skip and 
play and forget them ; but there is a something whis- 
pering, " She who neglects and chides me is my mother, 
I must not tell my grief" So he bears it like a hero 
and a martyr. Now his spirit seems to be purified 



POOH LITTLE KOBERT. 247 

and made manly and noble by his suffering. God grant 
that when he is older and is driven forth by his mother's 
reproaches, that evil ways may not tempt him, and re- 
proaches come back to her with tenfold bitterness. 

" The innocent mirth of childhood is too much for 
her delicate nerves." May she not see the neglected 
boy become the ruined man ; may the lips which she 
seals to childish prattle and chills with her coldness, 
never burn with unhallowed passion, and taunt her 
with her worse than heathen cruelty. 

" She cannot bear the gentle child in her presence 1" 
May she not live to see herself a mother whom her son 
hates. 

'' She cannot take the trouble to teach him to kneel 
at her feet and lisp his evening prayer." May her nerves 
never be rent and shattered with the curses those lips 
may yet utter, and which he will learn of those who 
will take pleasure in teaching him. " She cannot take 
bis little hand and lead him to bed — lull him with an 
infant song and press a kiss upon his cheek." May she 
not live to see him reeling from a drunken revel to a 
drunkard's couch, and shrink from the touch of him 
who owes to her his being, and whom she has held to 
her bosom. 

" She cannot listen to his songs of careless mirth and 
boyish glee." May her brain never be turned to mad- 



248 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

ness by the wail of a lost one whom she has cast down 
to degradation and shame. 

Poor little Eobert ! I cannot restrain the tears as I 
see thy little feet go wandering round with no mother 
to guide them. May some guardian angel keep thee, 
and " He who took little children in his arms and 
blessed them," watch over and bless thee always. 



g Mltmj |lih 011 JI]e ^$xmt 



IT is not necessary to give all the evidence which 
exists, to prove that it became absolutely necessary 
that I should ride about jQfty miles over a Western 
Prairie, alone ; that is, alone in the woman's sense of 
the term ! I had neither companion nor protector ! 

I had remained in one of those bustling towns far up 
on the banks of the Mississippi, till the ice had accumu 
lated in the river so that boats could not run, and I 
must therefore depend upon a stage, or some private 
conveyance, till I reached the point at which the river 

was again open. 

U* (249) 



250 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

For the first twelve miles I was indebted to the car- 
riage of a friend, and met with no adventures. Then I 
was put on board the " regular post-coach," and was 
the only passenger. There was no " inside and outside," 
and but two seats, one of which was occupied by the dri- 
ver, who was a " Great Western," a genuine son of the 
soil, and the other by my humble self. I felt indeed 
" peculiarly situated," and not at all inclined to be mer- 
ry ; but my companion soon gave evidence of a decided 
inclination to be sociable, by beginning the following 
dialogue. 

" Wal, I guess as how you aint married ?" 

" Wlij', what makes you think so ?" 

" Oh, I don'now, there's most allers generally some- 
thin' about the girls, so that I can tell w^hether er no 
they're married." 

" And I guess you are," I said by way of reply. 

'' No, oh no, I ain't," and there came over his braw- 
ny face, not a rosy, but a peony blush. 

'* Why not, why don't you get married ?" 

" Oh, when a man is married he has to settle right 
down in one place, can't go no where, nor see nothin', 
and I want to see a little of the world. I was born in 
Ohio, and came out here 'bout two years ago, and went 
to boating, and now I am driving team. Don't know 
what I shall do next." 

"Well," said I, "when you choose to marry and 



JL SOLITARY RIDE ON THE PRAIRIE. 251 

settle down, you have but to ask some nice girl, and 
she will say yes, and the matter will be finished at once." 

" Oh, but I aint so sure about hearin' yes. Girls 
sometimes say no." 

" Do they ? well you have the advantage of us, in the 
pi'ivilege of asking — we have to wait to be asked, and if 
nobody asks us, of course we cannot say yes." 

" But the asking, that's the worst part ; to kind o'like 
a girl, and pop the question, and hear her say no. I tell 
you it is about the hardest." 

Ilis ideas w^ere very original, and he expressed them 
W'ith great freedom, and served to diversify very plea- 
santly the sameness of a ride over some twelve miles of 
^prairie road, which recent rainings and freezings had 
converted into such a corduroy as no Green mountain 
wild ever witnessed. 

When his '• official term" was ended, he set me down 
at a little French tavern by the wayside and it was 
three o'clock in the afternoon. 

I only asked for the privilege of taking a nap, for it 
seemed to me I must have been metamorphosed into a 
jelly, and for the purpose of sleeping I was permitted 
to take my choice of half a-dozen little rooms — kitchen, 
parlor, and bed-room — all looking as if they had no 
such acquaintances as chambermaids, till in despair of 
finding comfort and cleanhness, " I laid me down to 
sleep" amidst fleas and various other quite as sociable 



252 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

companions, and slept ten minutes, when I was aroused 
by the bustling landlord, " for the stage was ready." 

" You are an English lady," said he, as he officially 
conducted me on my way. 

" Why, how came you to know ?" said I, for I thought 
it would be a pity to spoil his conceit, by telling what 
all my readers have learned by greater discernment, 
that I came from the greenest part of Yaniiee land — 
" how could you tell so quick ?" 

*' Oh, I can always tell an English lady the moment 
1 see her." . 

I suppose it was my embonjjoint which deceived him, 
as 1 confess' it often led others into the same mistake, 
and is on a scale which American women generally, and 
modern gentility do not approve ! 

Now I was on the way again, and not in any thing 
that could in Christian charity be called a stage. A 
New-England urchin would have called it a *' go-cart." 
I needed no canopy to shield me from the sun, for it 
was cloudy and very dark, but the wind was piercing 
cold, and I had for companions three boorish-looking 
men. Never before did I feel so much as if I were 
away out in Iowa ! 

The sun soon went down, the moon and stars were 
invisible ; I could not see the river ; there were no 
hills, all around was one dreary waste. With what 
affection my thoughts lingered among the dells and 



A SOLITARY RIDE ON THE PRAIRIE. 253 

dingles of my native land — those forests, and those 
grand old hills. 

But during this ride I saw for the first time those 
mysterious mounds, the " Tumuli of the West." Little 
hillocks they seemed long, and narrow, and too regular 
to owe their existence to the freaks of nature. For two 
or three miles they were scattered along at little dis- 
tances from each other, and my fancy was very busy in 
imagining their origin, and wondering concerning the 
strange people who moulded them. But fancy, how- 
ever far it wandered, and however frequent its queries, 
could bring me back no answer. 

At nightfall we stopped " to water the horses" at a 
genuine log cabin of the prairie, and I ran in to take a 
peep. How true that one half the world knows not 
how the other half lives. There were two rooms, with 
no other floor than the native earth ; the logs of the roof 
and ceiling were just as nature made them ; there was 
a bed in each of the three corners, and a stove in the 
fourth, upon which were roasting, and baking, and boil- 
ing, goose and quail and Prairie chicken, with all the et- 
ceteras of a luxurious repast. So much more do such 
people care for the palate, than for the comfort of any 
other portion of the body. 

Tame animals of the feathered tribe were " at roost" 
overhead, and all around hung the paraphernalia of the 



254 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

bipeds and four-footed things who lodged " within and 
round about." 

I had only time for a glance when " all was ready," 
and on we went. The prairie fires were blazing at a 
distance in every direction, and more and more strange 
and desolate it seemed. But my companions proved 
very harmless, and did- not address unto me a word, 

during the w^hole w^ay to K , where they deposited 

me upon the platform of a hotel in the midst of a multi- 
tude, I being the only woman. 

I w^as guided up stairs into the reception room, in 
W'hich were two beds and a lounge, a bureau, a stove, 
and three rocking chairs, with various other conveni- 
ences. This room opened into a large hall " where 
men did seem to congregate." A woman in this region 
is always a lion^ and must expect to be treated like one. 
I was no sooner seated than the door opened, and in 
stalked a would-be gentlem.an, with his hands in his 
pockets and a cigar in his mouth. He Walked back 
and forth very leisurely, viewing me from top to toe, till 
he w^as satisfied, (I conclude,) and then walked out, to 
make room for another, who followed his example, as 
did five or six more. Thinking endurance no longer a 
virtue, I arose and asked for my room. 

To reach it, I was conducted through same hall, 
the gentlemen forming a phalanx on each side for me to 
pass, and making the best use of their eyes they could 



A SOLITARY RIDE ON THE PRAIRIE. 255 

in SO short a time. Then up a ^pair of rickety stairs 
through a bed-room, and finally into my own. Dear 
me ! weary and worn as I was, I despaired of finding 
rest in such a place. 

The room must have been proof against brooms and 
dusters, and the bed against water. There were lying 
about such articles as I had not. been accustomed to 
seeing in ladies' sleeping apartments ! and which prompt 
ed me to be sure the door was secured against all pos- 
sibility of ingress. 

Every moment the boat was expected on which I was 
to take passage for St. Louis, so I had no time to sleep, 
vet I could not keep awake. My nap was only a sea- 
son of horrible visions, by which I was not in the least 
refreshed, and seemed an age, but I found could only 
have been a few moments, when I was called, for the 
" boat was ready." 

Upon opening my door, I found the floor . of the 
adjoining room so thickly strewn with human beings 
that I could with difficulty find my way, and when I 
landed in the grSat hall, lo ! the multitude was still 
there, only having changed a standing for a recumbent 
position, and up popped a hundred of these same black 
heads to stare at me again. I opened the first door 
which met my eye, and found myself in the dinjiig-room ; 
with a feeling of relief I seated myself in the nearest 
chair, thinking <' I am certainly safe here. ' 



256 THE MYETLE WREATH. 

Soon I heard a coughing and sneezing that promised 
an3'thing but solitude, and started up to see " what 
now I" My consternation was not diminished when I 
beheld on the floor behind the table, a row of cots, and 
fifty more black heads, and a hundred staring eyes. 
Alas, what should I do ? not a woman to be seen or 
heard of 

I opened a door to depart, and found it leading up 
a dark, narrow staircase, which offered anything but 
hope of relief. I opened another which presented to me 
a chasm which certainly reminded me of the bottomless 
pit ! There were no more, and I sat down in hopeless 
imprisonment. 

Soon I heard a step and ran to the hall stair-case to 
speak. I saw a man, but he was standing and walk- 
ing, which was a little encouraging. 

"Where shall I go," said I in accents of misery. 

" Down here," said he, and he led me to the bar-room ! 
There was a blazing fire, which was another comfort, 
for I was nearly frozen ; there were also plenty of men, 
but they were sitting, and I again took courage. They 
were chewing and smoking, and spitting and swearing^ 
and there were plenty of evidences, that they had been 
drinking. But I never fell into the company of even 
such men w^hen they did not immediately attempt to 
assume a decent deportment. If they would only wear 
it all the time, how much better it would fit ! They were 



A SOLITARY RIDE ON THE PRAIRip. 257 

very civil to me, and, after half an hour in their compa- 
ny, I was again reminded that the boat would soon 
leave. 

" Over moor, over mire, 

Through bush, and through brier," 
I was escorted on my winding way to the river. It 
was very dark, my guide was a stranger, and our 
walk half a mile in length. Many were the resolutions 
I made never to travel " after this wise" again ; but I 
reached the boat in safety, and was rejoiced to greet a 
woman once more, though as state-room companion, 
she was not the most agreeable, being a Dutch servant- 
girl, and none of the tidiest ! 



"M^itfunaiMf?" 



THEEE is a tiny creature nestling in a little crib by 
my side, and ever^^ sound is hushed lest something 
should disturb its slumbers; the room is dark, lest 
there should come a sunbeam and rest upon its eyelid ; 
it cannot move a hand or turn its little head but the 
mother starts up to see if some evil has not come nigh 
unto it, for it is her child, her first born, and seems to 
her the most beautiful of all the gifts her heavenly Fa- 
ther has bestowed. 

And what is its name ? Oh it has not yet a name, 

(258) 



what's in a name ? 



259 



though a hundred have been syllabled and sung to see 
if they were musical enough for their baby ; with each 
there has been some flmlt, and now that the matter has 
become so important to them it seems strange that the 
English language should be so meagrely supplied with 
names suitable for such a baby ! 

The whole catalogue has been ransacked, but one is 
too long and another too short, and another too com- 
mon, and another very well for a grown up person, but 
not at all proper for such a cunning little creature as 
this. It must be one that can be shortened and petted 
easily whilst it is necessary to talk bab^j talk, and then 
it must be one that can call her easily when she begins 
to go patting round on her little feet ; but then it must 
be one that she will hke herself when she is a young 
lady— one which her lover would like, and especially her 
husband ! Let's see, Caty and Minnie and Mary— but 
one is too fVmciful, and the second found only in books, 
and Mary is pretty and a good substantial name, a 
Bible name; but every body has a Mary. We must 
find something else. Again the catalogue is called 
over, and again and again, but without success. What 
shall we call the baby ? 

The father comes in every niglit and clasps one of 
those little hands upon his forefinger ; and really thinks 
there never was such a curious piece of workmanship. 
" What beautiful little dimples are nestling all over it, 



260 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

what perfect nails ! — just see that little thumb. Oh, is 
it not wonderful! But what shall we call her, wife ? 
we must have a name :" and then he, conceited, selfish 
man,' goes on thinking (I see it all over his face) there 
never has been one invented which it w^ould not be 
almost wicked to bestow upon such a baby ! But here 
the prosy old nurse exclaims, " Fudge, what's in a 
name? do give her a good old fashioned Christian 
name, and if she never does anything to disgrace it, you 
may think yourselves well off." 

Now you should see the indignation in that father's 
face at the idea that his child should do aught to dis- 
grace her name, whatever it may be. Alas ! how many 
fathers have thought thus, and lived to blush at the 
name they bestowed upon a daughter in her helpless 
innocence. 

Things are at this crisis when there is ushered in a 
venerable grey-haired man, who has almost finished his 
three-score years and ten, a clergyman who has been all 
his life contemplating things solemn and divine, and to 
him the matter is presented. " What shall we name 
the baby ?" All this while it has been seeming inex- 
pressibly ludicrous to me that two sensible people 
should make it a matter of so much consequence, and 
look so very wise, and talk as if the fate of nations were 
depending on a decision which I thought I could make 
in five minutes and say no more about it ; but when this 



what's in a name 1 26 1 

dio-nified man, to whom I have never dared to address 
anything but monosyllables, is seriously mvited to give 
his opinion upon nammg this little insignificant thing, 1 
am ready to laugh outright and to blush for their folly. 
But lam immediately reproved by the aged man, 
who very solemnly repeats, " A name for the baby !— 
it is indeed a very important matter, and one over which 
you should pray and think seriously, for the 7iame is to 
be registered in heaven !" I had not thought of this, 
but instantly saw that, looked upon in this hght, very 
solemn thoughts must be suggested, and most solemnly 
did the good minister endeavor to impress it upon our 
minds as he went on picturing the Eecording Angel 
standing by the great book, in which were written the 
names of all the people of every nation, tongue and kin- 
dred, and underneath each the " idle words" for which 
we were to " give an account !" 

The little "muling, puling infant" was now trans- 
formed into an immortal spirit, and we looked forward 
to the time when she would be an inhabitant of heaven, 
and her name would be spoken by angels and archan- 
gels and all the saints of light. 

The words of the mmister made a deep impression 
upon the heart of the mother, and though she was far 
from being a thoughtless woman, she now exclaimed, 
" I have given birth to something that will never die : 
how can I fulfill the holy mission of training a spirit 



262 THE MYRTLE WKEATH. 

for immortality ?" in a tone which implied a conscious- 
ness of her responsibility as she had never felt it before. 
Then my memory recalled a family picture, where aged 
parents were surrounded by sons and daughters grown 
up to manhood and womanhood, and all seemingly 
happy and prosperous ; where I could not discover any 
cause why sadness should sit upon the mother's brow, 
and a smile scarcely ever lighten her features. I heard 
the sigh that escaped her bosom, and listened to the 
words which fell from her lips, sometimes mourning that 
she had ever formed the tie which gave her a wife's and 
a parent's duties, and always advising others to assume 
them not. 

Though she was now old, I saw her the idol of her 
husband's affections, and children "rising up to call her 
blessed," and all who knew her regarding her with 
peculiar honor, and I said, " Why is it that she is not hap- 
py, and does not consider herself highly favored among 
women ?" Fortune has smiled upon her ; everything in 
her outward life is pleasant ; she is a Christian, and her 
children are "heirs of the same precious faith." It 
must be an unhappy spirit that is not cheerful and even 
joyous in a home like hers. 

But I did not know all. There was one whom I 
had not seen, and whose name I had never heard. lie 
had been consigned to a drunkard's grave ! They never 
alluded to him now. That mother needed not to be 



what's in a name ? 263 

reminded that she bad given birth to an' immortal spirit. 
His name was registered in heaven — but ah ! it was not 
written afterwards in the " Lamb's book of hfe." 

Oh, how can there ever be a thoughtless mother — one 
who forgets that she has " given birth to something 
tliat will never die" — a spirit to be trained for immo r 
tality ! 

Let those remember who are to "name the baby" 
that the Eecording Angel will write the word down, and 
on them it depends whether, on " the great day," it is 
called among those who enter the realms of light and 
bliss, or is blotted out forever! 



tg 0ton f ittU fciur. 



TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF BERANGER. 



I LIKE not the world and its fashion, 

I love lonely solitude best, 
Those gay whirling pleasures are thraldom, 

Betirement alone offers rest. 
Enclosed in my own little boudoir, 

I am blithe as the bird on the tree, 

Oh give me my own little corner. 

And from every dull care I am free. 

(264) 



MY OWN LITTLE CORNER. 265 

There I go with the soldier to battle, 

And ponder the affairs of the State ; 
I weep o'er the people's misfortunes, 

And assign to the rulers their fate. 
I look to the future with pleasure, 

And gaily it smile th on me, 
Oh leave me my own little corner. 

And from every dull care I am free. 

There too, with the wand of a fairy, 

I lavish good gifts on the poor, 
I rear noble trophies of glory. 

And the w^orthy to honor allure ! 
I rule in the councils of piinces, 

And pure are the laws they decree ! 
Oh leave me my own little corner, 

And from every dull care I am free. 

And there like a silken winged seraph. 

My fancy floats sportive and gay. 
And ever around me is strewing, 

Bright garlands she wreathes b}'' the way : 
Ah yes, from the world and its pleasures. 

My heart ever ol^dl}^ would flee, 

Oh leave me my own little corner, 

And from every dull care I am free. 
12 



266 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

With a patriot's love for my country 

I offer to heaven my prayer, 
Tliat she may be ever protected, 

And the richest of blessings may share 
Then do not, I pray thee, rebuke me, 

Though musing alone I may be, 
Oh, leave me my own little corner. 

And from every dull care I am free. 



%m\]m Htbtric in ii S.aitc Canter. 



^•T HATE old maids; she is an old maid, I hate 
X the sight of her." 

This was a sentence to which I listened in my lone 
corner, and I looked around to see by whom and of 
whom such words w^ere spoken in such bitterness. 

I saw, not far off, a quiet unobtrusive woman, plainly 

but very neatly dressed, with an expression of refined 

and subdued sadness upon her face, and a gentleness in 

her manners, which indicate to all who know these signs 

that her life had been passed among the high-bred, and 

that pure feehngs and lofty sentiments were hers. 

(267) 



268 THE MYllTLE WREATH. 

I have ^Yatched her in her walks among the flowers 
and in the groves, and noticed the true appreciation of 
the beautiful which she manifested in her admiration 
and I have listened to her conversation with those who 
know her, and been delighted with her quiet humor, 
originality and quick discernment. 

Two gay young girls are walking up and down the 
saloon radiant with silk and tinsel, and as they j)ass 
they turn their heads with scorn, when about to meet 
the glance of the quiet dignified lady who knows no 
reason why they should refuse her friendly greetings, 
and therefore offers them a bow or smile of recognition 
as a mark of interest in their youth and happiness. 

Very haughtily they quicken their steps, and toss 
their heads, and the one with gay streamers exclaims 
"an old maid, I hate the sight of one." 

I am not a prophet, but if I were, I would risk my 
reputation upon the prediction that ere twenty years 
have passed, her ears will listen to that which will pain 
them more ! 

Let me tell you why Miss B. is an " old maid." She 
was once young like you, though not like you haughty, 
vain and vulgar ! She had a fresh warm heart, worth a 
thousand such as yours. She had beauty, too, and 
wealth. 

I cannot add that she had around her a crowd of ad- 



ANOTHER EEVERIE IN A LONE CORNER. 269 

mirers, but if you lingered a little more politel}^, you 
might see upon one finger a ring, the only one she 
wears, which betokens an engagement. Yes, she was 
betrothed. 

In three weeks she was to stand at the altar with one 
who was also young, and who had loved her long and 
truly, but alas for earthly hopes, the evening that was 
to see her a happy bride, found her alone by his grave. 

**Itis a pity," exclaimed the village gossips, ''that 
they were not married, for then she could talk about 
him, and- it would look so different to the world." 

Yes, it is a pity that the world should have a stand- 
ard of propriety so different from what is right, and 
pure, and holy. Is she not a widow ? Were their 
hearts not sealed by the hohest of all bonds ? Why 
should she not speak of such a love, as if it. were no', 
hallowed in the sight of Heaven, as truly as if the out- 
ward seal had been affixed to their union ? 

She did not " sit among the mourners," when the 
last respects were paid to the departed, though she was 
the one who mourned most deeply. No, this would not 
have been maidenly decorum. She did not speak of 
her grief, this she knew would not be considered proper. 
But she did not feed upon her sorrow till she became a 
useless misanthrope. She went about doing good, 
cheerful and seemingly happy, knowing that she must 



270 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

ever be one of those desolate ones, for whom the world 
has so little sympathy. 

To how many homes has she been an angel of incrcy — 
into how many hearts has she poured the oil of healing 
— how sweetly has she counselled in the hours of adver- 
sity — how kindly chid in the hour of sin. A sweet 
savor ever rising to Heaven, her good deeds have been. 
She is not yet old, and if married would be called a 
" young woman." A long life of loneliness she has yet 
to live, with her " heart ever hunoering^," for no true 
woman's heart was ever satisfied with aught byt love — 
something which she is severely censured for not feehng, 
and more censured for speaking ! God made her so, 
and she should not blush to own it, and this desolation, 
with the world's unfeeling scorn, makes life a sad pil- 
grimage. 

From that lone corner I often saw another in those 
deep weeds which always excite sympathy and purchaj^e 
respect. They were worn by one who was but a few 
months a wife, and who knew w'hen she became one 
that she must soon be a widow. She knew the magic 
of the title, and the deference the world would pay to 
it. The vows were breathed without the love which 
can make them holy, and there was no grief in the huait, 
when the tie was sundered which bound her to an uu 
willing obedience. 

Gaily she smiles, and her smiles are not met with 



ANOTHER REVERIE IN A LONE CORNER. 271 

coldness. The world permits her to talk of her sorrow 
and it will never prey upon her spirits. Grief will not 
mar her beauty ; she is still fresh and blooming, thougli 
older in years than she with the widowed heart. 

Ah, there is another world where worth is weighed 
in the true balance. The thoughtless belle will not 
tread with that haughty step, the streets of the Heavenly 
city. These saloons are brilliant, and these forms beau- 
tiful to the animal vision, but there is a beauty of the 
spirit which transcends it all. 

Ye desolate ones, whose hearts are heavy, those 
whom you loved have gone before, and the trials you 
meet in journeying life's pilgrimage, with the gross and 
selfish ones of earth, are " like the furnace to silver, and 
the fire to gold;" but life does not last always, and he 
who sitteth on the throne and judgeth, looketh upon the 
heart. 

In the palaces of the New Jerusalem will be assem- 
bled the meek and lowly ones of earth, who have " suf- 
fered for Jesus' sake" — their forms will be arrayed in 
the " white and shining robes," their hands will tune 
the " golden harps," and their brows will wear the jew- 
eled crown. 

'' There will be neither marrying nor giving in mar- 
riage"— neither rich nor poor — dashing belles wjth gay 
streamers, nor hateful old maids in Heaven. 



a Maninn's %ml 



How many sensible husbands do I know, who 
think a woman's toil is nothing, and deserves no 
reward because she is not engaged in coining money. 

They cannot perceive that it is any labor to take five 
thousand steps round the cooking stove to prepare 
breakfast for a dozen people, or as many more for din- 
ner and for supper, and twice as many more for the 
various other duties she has to perform. 

Just look with me into that neat and comfortable 
house on the hill, and watch for one diiy a prudent 



A WOMAN'S TOIL. 273 

industrious woman, at her daily labors. At five o'clock 
yes, often at four, you may see her gliding softly around^ 
for "fear of disturbing the little ones," sweeping and, 
dusting, and ^'- putting things to rights^'* and ere she has 
half finished, some half a dozen little heads are popping 
up and crying, '* mother, mother/' and she must run 
and " dress the children." 

It is no work to pick up their frocks and pinafores — 
to wash them from top to toe, and tie a hundred strings 
— to patiently answer a hundred questions, and settle 
as many little disputes. It is no labor to run up and 
down stairs fifty limes " to put away the things after 
breakfast," and it is only play to stand two hours at the 
dishtub. It is only recreation to stop and wash baby 
and dress him, and get him to sleep, and in the menu 
time to fit out three or four who are hopping and skip- 
ping and jumping, and fretting and quarreling, too, per- 
haps, for school. 

But when all this is fairly is over, she has nothing to do 
but rest. Her gude man slept soundly till the breakfast 
bell rang, and then he washed and shaved, a little dis- 
turbed by the noise of the children to be sure, and after 
breakfast he seated himself in the great chair, with his 
left foot comfortably resting on his right knee, to read 
the newspapers and pick his teeth ! 

By the time he has finished these important manly 

operations, it is time to go to the oflSce, and he takes his 
12* 



274 THE MYKTLE WREATH. 

hat and cane and sallies forth. His business for three or 
four hours, is " harassing, embarrassing, perplexing and 
wearing," and when he returns tp dinner it is right and 
proper that he should be a little cross, if it is not ready 
at the moment, if it is not cooked to his taste, and every 
thing is not in order as ]\[rs. B. " knows he wishes and 
expects to find it." — " What a slave he is to his wife 
and children." 

After dinner he spends three or four hours more in 
that same brain racking, and, very likely, soul destroy- 
ing business, and then it is strange that every body 
should not be quiet when he comes home — he needs 
rest. His wife has not known a moment's cessation 
from toil and care and anxiety, but that is nothing, it is 
her duty to be cheerful and patient, and long sufiering 
and forbearing. Bhe is a woman — her labor is of no 
account, it brings no money. 

The evening he spends in the great chair, reading or 
sleeping, or he goes to lecture, or to have a plesant chat 
with his neighbors, and when he pleases he goes to bed, 
and sleeps soundly till morning. He is paid for what he 
does, and therefore it is labor. 

The wife has never once been out to breathe the air, 
or enjoy the sunshine — when not upon her feet she has 
toiled with her needle, 

" At band and gusset and seam. 
And seam and gusset and band." 



A woman's toil. 275 

And long into the weary night perhaps, has she lean- 
ed over the thankless task, '' because the children were 
asleep and she could work undisturbed." But surely 
that is not toil, to put the needle through and through 
— to patch and mend and sew on buttons. 

All night she has the care of her baby, and knows no 
dreamless sleep. A weight is ever on her mind, and 
thus it is through days and months and years. Is it 
strange that her brow is furrowed and her cheek hollow ? 
Iler husband is distressed that she should grow old. — 
Why cannot she remain always fresh and young and 
fair ? She ought to walk in the open air — women stay 
in the house too much. He does not believe it need take 
all her time to do the work. He cannot afford to hire 
'' lielp^^ it ^^ is jjaying out moyiey?'' 

He hires a man to open the shutters and sweep the 
office, whilst he is sleeping and picking his teeth, but 
then it would not be proper for him to perform that 
menial labor. Sweeping and dusting and scrubbing, — 
weary days and wakeful nights — this is woman's sphere ! 

And when one wife has worn herself into the grave, 
and the green mound has covered her, why he can 
easily get another, for there are plenty more who have 
nothing else to do, and it is proverbial that the second 
does get a little more mercy than the first ! And it is 
proverbial that men grow old with scarcely a foot print 
upon their brows, whilst women fade and wither and 



276 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

fall like autumn leaves ; but there is no reason, for their 
labor is nothing, and the " wearing, harassing, perplex- 
ing toil," is all performed by men, and they earn all the 
money ! 



m attJr f ittlc Jiins. 



M 



Y way led ine tli rough one of the by lanes of the 

Great City in my evening walk, and as it was 

just at nightfall, I met at almost every step the laborer 

" hieing from his toil." It is Saturday night, and almost 

every one had in his hand the reward of his week's 

labor, — a fish, a basket of potatoes, or a bag of meal ; 

and in many countenances I could read that pleasant 

and so visible expression, " I'm going home to my wife 

and children and a day of rest." All around, in the 

street and on the sidewalk, were the children of these 

(277) 



278 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

toiling parents, " some in rags, and some in tags, and 
some in velvet gowns." On one corner I noticed a lit- 
tle boy with sun-bleached head and sun-tanned face, on 
which there was not even the careless joy of childhood, 
and soon there came a coarse" and dogged looking man, 
and in a voice of cold and grating harshness, I heard 
him callout, " Bill, come home !" Instantly he obeyed ; 
but there was no smile of gladness at his father^s coming 
— and he did not run to take his hand, and fill his ears 
%vith childish prattle, as happy children do, but, with a 
look of crouching fear, he lagged behind, — his bare feet 
red with cold and black with dirt, and in his eye a look 
which said, " Some day I'll be a man, — and then !" 
Yes, I thought, a miniature loafer, a thief perhaps, and 
rowdy. 

I walked along, and soon found them at their home. 
Oh, that this sweet word should ever be applied to 
place so wretched — and from it issued forth a w^oman, 
the wife, and mother, more unseemly, coarse and fear- 
inspiring than the father. The words of greeting were 
reproaches, and all around were the proofs of wretched- 
ness and sin. Soon the child received a blow for not 
doing what he did not know was required, and when I 
was a long way off, his deafening screams were ringing 
in my ears. 

I have heard it said that affection is one of the fruits 
of cultivation, — that the poor and ignorant are destitute 



BILL AND LITTLE AMY. 279 

of the love which softens the heart, and that it 
does not even exist to bind kindred — those of the same 
liousehold — to one another. 

I was pondering upon this, and wondering if it could 
be really so, when I met a little boy of twelve years old 
or more, with a wood-saw upon his shoulders ; and Ice, 
too, was going home. His face betokened maturity be- 
yond his years, and by his dress he might havebeentaken 
for a little Methusaleh, or one of Noah's progeny just 
issuing from the Ark. His coat hung loosely about 
his wasted form, and his collar and cravat were evidently 
made for one four times his size. 

But, though there was every indication of poverty, 
there was as plainly stamped refinement upon his face 
and in all his motions. Sorrow and thought were writ- 
ten upon his brow. I stopped and asked him where he 
had been. He looked up to see if I were friend or foe, 
and what my motive was, and then poHtely answered, 
" I've been sawing wood all day for a gentleman 
up town." '' And what have you received for pay ?" 
" Oh, meat and meal and things to carry home." " But 
had you not rather buy a hat or cap, or something pret- 
ty for yourself?" " Oh no," he said, " I do not care for 
myself, if mother and sister Amy have enough." 

I found his home was only a little farther on, and so 
I offered to go with him and see the mother and sister 
whom he loved so much. As we walked alonf>-, I was 



280 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

struck with the correctness of his language and the in- 
telligence he manifested. Soon we came to a big old 
shattered house occupied by many families and in two 
small rooms were the mother and four children we wei-e 
seeking. Though wretchedly poor and destitute, there 
was an air of comfort which told that she who presided 
was a lady, and in all their looks and tones there was 
proof that love bound them to one another. 

In the corner, in a stuffed and very comfortable-look- 
ing chair was little Amy. She had never walked a step 
or known a moment free from suffering. Her face 
was pale, and gleamed with that spiritual beauty which 
patient suffering always gives, and across her brow 
there came every now and then a shadow in which 
were volumes of the woes her little heart was feeling. 
Her dress was thin and made me shiver as the wind 
came whisthng by. I took her little hand, and asked 
her if she was not weary sitting there, and she said, 
" she would like to work tor help mother and brother 
James." Her little brothers looked upon her as if she 
were a being of higher order than themselves, and all 
around there seemed a pure and holy atmosphere from 
her presence. 

She was not cheerful. She knew nothing of animal 
happiness. She had never been out in the glad sun- 
shine, or joined the merry laugh of children on the green ; 



BILL AND LITTLE AMY. 281 

but she was patient and resigned. And I thougiit, they 
are not alone the useful, who toil, and strive, and win. 
Here is a little creature whose mission is to suffer. 
How could a holier influence be shed upon those little 
boys ? Will they not carry the impress of her patient 
smile and loving words in all their w\ay through life ? 

They are practising self-denial to surround her with a 
few little comforts ; and will it not prepare them for some 
noble sacrifice, and fit them for life's highest sphere ? 
They go forth in the morning with her childish bles- 
sing. She puts her arms lovingly round their necks 
and presses a kiss upon their cheeks, and says " Good- 
bye, come early home tonight ;" and will not that 
sweeten every hour of toil ? She sings a song for them 
at night or reads a story, and is ever studying how^ to 
show her gratitude ; and though hunger and cold often 
come, and they have few of what the world calls bles- 
sings, they are still happy, for they love one another. 
Those boys will never be guilty of crime or riot ; and 
then I thought of little " Bill," and almost wished he 
had a little sick and suffering sister to brighten his 
coming, and shed her hallowed radiance in one corner 
of his dark and dreary home. 

To love and suffer — this has ever been woman's mis- 
sion. It is the highest, holiest of all earthly missions. 
In the first she is like the ano^els — those ministerinjr 



282 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

spirits, invisible bat ever watchful — and in both she is 
Hive Him who was " meek and lowly , and went about 
doing good." 



%\t gatl]el0r's lcte00ni 



IF you will not ask me how I came to know, I will 
tell you just how it looked, that Bachelor's Bed- 
room. It was a little bit of a place, because the landlord 
thought, as he was only a bachelor, he did not need 
ver}^ spacious quarters, and the servants thought as he 
was only a bachelor they need not trouble themselves 
to sweep very clean, or dust very nice, and besides it 
was impossible, he " left everything round so," and imme- 
diately " turned everything topsy turvy," however 

(283; 



284 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

squarely they might arrange it. And so it followed 
that it looked very much like a pig-stye. 

There was a bed on which he reclined, whenever 
he was weary, with a quilt which shiny black boots had 
converted into " all of a color," and " all askew." There 
was a trunk, a very handsome thirty dollar trunk, 
which when deposited upon the platform of the hotel, 
indicated a gentleman who was well aware that people 
are often judged by the outsides of things^ and his 
well-brushed coat and Genin hat betrayed the same re- 
gard to appearances. 

So there was a hat box, in which to preserve the 
glossy beaver from the touch of " time's effacing fin- 
gers," and there was a carpet bag, "hanging on a nail 
overhead." In one corner was a heap of newspa 
pers : — the '^ Times" and " Hume Journal," two volumes 
of" Harper," the " Knickerbocker'' and the "Washing* 
ton Union," (strange medley,) and — a pair of boots ! 
In another corner comes a stack of newspapers — the 
" Boston Journal" and " Saturday Courier," " Putnam's 
Monthly" and — a pair of slippers, which must have 
been wrought by more delicate hands than his ! In 
another corner were half a dozen dickeys, a checked 
cotton cravat, a wiiite vest and other things, ready for 
the laundry, and a pair of brogans, in which his feet 
looked " amazing neat," but to the corner they were 
very unbecoming. 



THE bachelor's BEDROOM. 285 

All around on nails were various articles of a ward- 
robe, of which I never learned the names, but looking 
very much as if the man himself were suspended there 
and on the table was a box of " Giraud's Medicated 
Soap," for pimples, (he is very anxious to look well ;) 
onebox of"Cu6terdow's Excelsior Fluid Hair Dye," 
(why does he care to look young ;) a box of pills, (he is 
evidently dyspeptic;) hair brushes, nail brushes, and 
clothes brushes, lying about in most inelegant confu- 
sion. And there are two or three books, " Salad for 
the Solitary," " Eeveries of a Bachelor," and " Advice 
to Young Husbands," (there is a far-off vision in his mind 
of better days.) Dear sir, why are you content with 
visions only ? Why, I could tell you of a dozen pairs 
of bright eyes, that would see every particle of dust in 
an instant, and a dozen pairs of fair hands that would 
*' set; your room to rights," and make a little paradise of 
it in half an hour, and all for what it would make you 
a thousand times richer rather than poorer to give. 
" Just look on this picture and then on that." 
Do you see that snowy quilt, all smooth and nice, and 
those pillow cases with crimped frills not a bit tumbled. 
Do you see that toilet table with its muslin drapery, and 
that little vase of flowers in the centre, — that little box 
in v.'hich are arranged all the necessaries of a toilet ap- 
paratus, so that you " can find it all in the dark." Just 
peep into those drawers and envy the man who has his 



286 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

dickeys *' all in a row," his cravats all folded and in one 
place, his socks all mended and liis buttons all sewed 
on, and no trouble to him. The newspapers are just as 
plenty, and there are as many magazines, but they are 
filed and numbered, and " laid on the upper shelf." The 
clothes are in the closet, and the boots and slippers — 
where they should be ! 

But what makes the difference ? Do you not see that 
cunning little work-box, and that dainty bit of cambric ! 
but if you could only see the fair owner, and those 
bright eyes glisten, and those rosy cheeks blush welcome, 
at the entrance of one who is no better than you by na- 
ture, you would set about furnishing some snug little 
domicil with just such a pair of hands, being sure they 
were owned by one who had a true, warm heart, and 
then there would be no difference. 

Just try it, and you will no longer dread to go into 
that cheerless room, going about moping, or seeking 
comfort where you should not, — or in despair because 
a button has come off just as you were fastening your 
collar, or a seam has ripped in the most conspicuous 
place, just as you were setting off to the exchange. — 
Just try it, and the next time I take up my pen I will 
tell the world of a room where love is the motive 
power, and order reigns, for the Bachelor's dormitory 
has been transformed into the happy husband's home. 



Ptoto; 



I HAVE BEAUTY ENOUGH TO <JARRY ME THROUGH 
THE WORLD." 



• • T HAVE beauty enough to carry me through the 
X world." So said Kitty Grey. I heard her for I 
sat on the same seat with her in the old schoolhouse on 
the green. She dashed the book which she was study- 
ing to the floor. " I will not study," she continued, " I 
hate to study — it is well enough for Mary — she is homely, 
but she has more mind, and she must know something, 

in order to please. There is no such necessity for mo." 

(287) 



288 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

" Oh Kitty," I replied, " what foolish notions, and do 
you really mean to live in ignorance because you can get 
through the world without knowledge ? What do you 
expect beauty will gain for you, that you are so certain 
of its power ?" 

" Gain, why a rich husband to be sure, what else 
should a woman expect that would be sufficient for 
her?" 

" Kitty Grey, so young and yet so old ! you are de- 
liberately thinking that your beauty will purchase you 
a rich husband, and it is a pleasant thought to you that 
some rich man will many you for your beauty and no- 
thing else. What sort of life would that be ?" and I 
looked into Kitty's glowing face to see if there did not 
come a deeper blush at the thought of such a bargain. 

But it only beamed with a thoughtless kind of exul- 
tation at her power. She was very young, but she 
had learned something of the " way of the world," and 
in this matter certainly had judged rightly. She had 
beauty, and she knew its value, its market 'price ! 

So Kitty went to school through all the years of girl- 
hood, and learned nothing. She was gay and thought- 
less, and flitted about like a butterfly. She never gave 
any evidence of possessing a heart, and trifled without 
scruple with the hearts of others. Many were the lips 
that cursed her for her coquetry, while she only laughed 
and flirted the more. She liked to hear men profess to 



KITTY GREY. 289 

adore her, and when she had deceived them long i3Qough, 
she liked better to witness their consternation wlun she 
told them she despised thera. 

Wooers were abundant, for Kitty was right indeed 
when she said that men would care for little else when 
they looked into her face, and though each one knew 
the fate of those w^ho had gone before, with a presump- 
tion which w^as truly astonishing, each was sure that he 
was treated with sincerity ; but while he w^as glorying 
in his prize, and perhaps boasting of his success, the 
thoughtless girl was ridiculing his temerity and plotting 
his destruction. How gaily and wildly she laughed 
over her conquests. " What fools they were," she said, 
" to imagine she wanted anything more of them than to 
amuse herself" 

" But Kitty, you will begin to fade soon ; your's is a 
beauty which will not last longer than the years of 
youth. You must not trifle till it is too late." 

What a toss of the head was that with which she 
looked in the mirror, and twined her fingers in her au- 
burn curls. " None of them are rich enough yet," said 
she; "if I marry for money there must be more gold 
than any of these have in their coffers." 

" You will have to marry an old man, some rich old 
clod plodder — Oh Kitty, what a life you will lead." 

" I do not care if he is as old as Methuselah, ][ will 
be rich — what a dash I will make in the wcrld 1" 
13 



290 THE MYRTLE WRi^ATII. 

And Kitty's hopes were not disappointed. A wooer 
who was rich enough came at last, and though he was 
not as old as Methuselah, his age was nearly three 
times hers, and a " stupid old fool " she said he was, 
" that she could manage just as she pleased." 

In this too she was not disappointed, she managed him 
to perfection, and yet, if she had had a heart or the 
least sensibility, it would have been like spending life in 
the stocks. 

" A stupid old thing " he is, to be sure, especially af- 
ter dinner, when two empty bottles are standing by his 
side, yet he knows enough to watch his gay young 
wife, and Oh, the oaths he pours into her ear if he sus- 
pects her of trifling. But they do not trouble her, 
she laughs and trifles on, only endeavoring to be a lit- 
tle more careful when he is — drunk 1 How graceful she 
is ; how like a queen she moves about, blooming as a 
bride, with never a sigh that tells of a wearied or ach- 
ino- heart. She is not a true woman. All these false 

o 

and hollow pleasures are enough for her. 

She is in the midst of a festive circle where the wine 
has passed freely round, and her husband has sipped 
until he is maddened rather than stupified. Kitty has 
forgotten to be sedate. What a sight for a mixed as- 
sembly ! A bottle is sent whizzing at her head, and 
epithets are heaped upon her that the veriest outcast in 
the street would blush to hear. And yet she heads 



KITTY GREY. 291 

them not. He never refuses her money, and this was 
what she married him for. What a dash she does make 
indeed. "What a giddy whirl she keeps. 

" Oh dear, if he would only die !" Yes, Kitty Grey 
had come to this, that she dared speak such a thought. 

" Oh Kitty, what are you saying, and what if this 
should come to the ears of the gossipping world ? You 
do not mean what you say." 

" Yes indeed," exclaimed Kilty, " I do mean it, and 
why not — he is so old and gouty, and is so much trou- 
ble, and watches me more than ever. I wish he was 
dead." 

I looked in amazement, but there was not a shadow 
of remorse upon her countenance. To her it was '• all 
of hfe to live, and all of death to die," and anything" 
that deprived her of life's gay pleasures she looked upon 
as she would a stone in her pathway. She knew that 
she married a " stupid old thing," but she did not look 
forward so far as to the time \vhen he would be nearly 
eighty and she still young and handsome. Now that he 
could not be present at dinner parties, and could not 
join the circle around the card-table, he wished her to 
remain with him, and stupid indeed she was beginning 
to learn he was. He could talk about nothing, and if 
she took a book to read to him he swore — if she walked 
he swore, and if she sat still he swore. He knew she 



292 THE myrtlp: wreath. 

hated him, and Kitty did not play the hypocrite and pre- 
tend to love him. 

But death did come at length, and before Kitty had 
lost her charms. He died, that wretched old man — died 
with an oath on his lips, died cursing his gay young 
wife. Kitty went to the mirror and said, " How will 
weeds become me ?" 

She made the necessary arrangements and assumed a 
becoming gravity, wore her veil the prescribed length 
and the hem the prescribed depth, although she did not 
weep nor pretend to mourn, and when the prescribed 
days were ended, during which she must appear to be 
sorrowful, she was a gay young widow, with the money 
all at her command ! 

'' Oh Kitty, what will become of you when the sea- 
son of gaiety is passed ? Do you ever think of the 
world beyond the grave ?" 

" No, indeed," said Kitty, " there is time enough to 
think of it when I am old and can no longer enjoy the 
world." Yet I saw a look of terror cross her face, and 
I knew she was not so thoughtless as she seemed. I 
knew too that she had wasted much of the energy of 
life ere life was half spent, and that the fear of death 
did sometimes blanch her cheek. Still she tried to 
drown all such troublesome thoughts in some new sea 
of pleasure, and was everywhere welcomed as the gay, 
the brilliant, the fascinating Mrs. A . 



KITTY GREY. 293 

I could not follow her in the dizzy maze — I often 
heard of lier, but seldom met her. I loved her when 
she was little Kitty Grey, and sat beside me in the dis- 
trict school, because she was phiyful and often affec- 
tionate, and very witty, but I could not love her as I saw 
her in the heartless unprincipled woman. 



" I am dying !" These were the words I received in 
a little note, written with Kitty's own hand. I knew 
what they meant, and quickly did I obey the summons, 
and hasten to the bedside of her who was now to drink 
the dregs of the cup of pleasure — so sweet at the top, 
so bitter at the bottom. 

Yes, Kitty was dying — how she sobbed as she threw 
her arms around my neck, and clung to me, crying 
"Must I die. Oh must I die?" She was scarcely the 
shadow of her former self, there was not a truce of 
beauty left upon her form or cheek. The lily and 
rose had been exchanged for consumption's sallow hue, 
and the skin seemed drawn tightly over every bone, and 
had a glossy look, which told the sad story of decay. 

I laid her back upon the pillow and soothed her with 
kindly words. " Am I so changed," she said, " Oh is it 



294 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

consumption, and must I die ?" and again she sobbed 
bitterly. 

I did not attempt to deceive her. " Yes Kitty," I said, 
" you must die. It is consumption, and quicldy it is 
hurrying you to the grave. Oh Kitty, how does your 
gay life seem to you now ?" 

She covered her face with her hands and cried, 
" Why did they teach me to live so, Oh why did my 
mother let me grow up such a vain thoughtless thing? 
I might have been different, Oh I might have been 
something better !" 

This question had often been asked by others, but the 
mother was just such a vain thoughtless thing herself, 
and wished her daughter to be happy^ and thought in 
order to be happy she must be gay and thoughtless, and 
dance life away. 

Only one week before I was summoned to her death- 
bed, Kitty had given a ball, when those around her al- 
most feared that every step would precipitate her into 
the grave. 

That night she was carried to her bed, and never 
again left it. ** Oh the grave yard," she would exclaim, 
" how can I lie buried in the ground." 

Every effort was made to lead her thoughts from 
earth and the a^-ave to heaven, and 

" Him who can make a dying bed 
Feel soft as downy pillows are ;" 



raiTV (J KEY. 295 

but still death was a fearful messenger, and she clung 
to life like one who feels that it is the ship, and that all 
is darkness and uncertainty beneath. Her mind had 
been so dissipated that it did not seem capable of com- 
prehending truth. Every day she caught at some new 
hope that she might yet recover and enjoy life again. 

" Consumption is a syren " — how it deceived her, and 
in some measure deceived those around her. They did 
not think she was so soon to die. 

It was a morning, a cold November morning ; I was 
scarcely awake, when a voice hurriedly whispered in my 
ear, " Come, come quick, Kitty is indeed dying." In 
another moment I was at her bedside. But she was al- 
most speechless. She knew she was dying, and realized 
now " what it was to die " — it was not the grave of 
which she thought, nor of the agony of the death-thi*oe, 
it was ETERNITY. This was the word her lips murmured 
— "Eternity;" it was the last she spoke on earth 
Her eyes were closed to open in another world. Thi- 
ther I cannot follow her. What preparation God 
wrought in her inmost soul ere he took her hence I 
cannot tell ; to me there seemed no change that fitted 
her for the companionship of the high and holy. 

This was the life and this the death of Kitty Grey, 
who had " beauty enough to carry her through the 
world." She learned when it was to late that " is is not 
alt of life to live and all of death to die." To get 



296 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

tlirougli the world is not suCicieut. There is an eter- 
nity beyond. 

Eternity ! It is a word of solemn import at any time, 
but never did it ring so fearfully in my ear, as when ut 
tered by the dying lips of Kitty Grey ; those lips which 
had been speaking foolishness all the days of her life 
and now for the first time were breathing solemn words, 
with that earnest dying look. Oh, could they be the 
same from which burst forth the heartless sentiment at 
the commencement of my story ? 

Eternity had then never entered her thoughts, the 
word had never rested upon her lips. Little thought 
she then that it would be the one which would seal them 
forever. 



%\t f Me ptt| m.. 



T)^^ my matches, lady; will you buy my matches?'* 
JL) Once or twice I had passed through the street 
and heard the cry without stopping to notice it, but a 
few nights ago it was almost dark, and the wind blew 
very cold, as I was hurrying on, when again it rang in my 
ear, "Oh, buy my matches, lady," and I felt a gentle 
pull at my dress, which induced me to stop and speak 
to the earnest pleader. 

She was a little girl with that bonny blithe expres- 
sion, which indicated the land of her birth beyond the 
13* (297) 



298 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 



sea, and her flaxen hair fell in tangled masses upon her 
brow and neck ; her feet and legs were bare, and her 
frock was tattered and thin and soiled. , 

" Oh, I do not need any matches, dear," I said as I 
put my hand kindly upon her head and smoothed the 
hair upon her temples. " I do not keep house, and I 
have no particular use for matches." " Oh, but you can 
buy a few," she said, as she looked up beseechingly, 
first at my face, and then at my dress, as if she were 
thinking, " You are able to have such nice things, you 
might bay a few," and I began to think so too. 

" But what will you do with the money if I buy your 
matches ?" " Oh, I'll give it to my mother." "And what 
will your mother do with it ?" " Buy coff*ee and 
bread." And does your mother never buy any of 
that naughty stuff that makes her cross sometimes, with 
the money you get ?" Here the little girl's cheeks grew 
red, and she held down her head without answering at 
all. Ah, thought I, the money will not buy bread if I 
give it, but the little girl hesitates to tell a he ; so, to en- 
courage her in speaking the truth, I will put pennies in 
her hand, and pray that God will give her bread. 

Her blue eye sparkled brightly as she took them, then 
away she ran crying " Matches, matches" till she was 
out of sight and so far off I could not hear her voice. 

But the matches served to remind me of her, and I 
hoped again to meet her in my walky, where children 



THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL. 299 

seem to be as sand upon the sea shore for multitude ; 
and to-night, though it was fairly dark when I was pass- 
ing along way from where I met her before, she came 
running, as fast her little feet would carry her, crying, 
"Oh, now, dear lady, wnll you buy more matches?" 
'^ Dear child, I have not used up half I bought of you 
the other day, so I do not need any more;" but this 
time she did not urge her plea, though she seemed more 
sad than when I met her before. 

" Come," said I, " will you show me where your 
house is ; it is too late for you to be in the crowded 
street." How my heart sunk within me as I took her 
hand to be guided down a dismal alley, where I could 
see nothing but filth and dirt and squalid poverty, and 
thought, " Oh, dear, thatlittle girls must grow up in such 
a place as this." Coarse, brutal men were lounging 
around, and now and then the drunken brawl fell on my 
ear, and oaths and blasphemies made me shudder as I 
passed. 

To the little creature at my side, these were familiar 
sounds; and when she is a little older, what is to pre- 
serve her from the " path of sin" and the " way of 
death?" 

Her home was not, indeed, the worst among the 
miserable huts that surround it, and yet it was miser- 
able in the extreme. Her mother was not in, but there 
was another little girl in the corner on a pallet of straw^ 



300 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

fast asleep. " And is this your sister ?" said I. " Yea, 
she sells flowers, and I sell matches." " And where 
does she get her flowers ?" " Oh ! of the man who has 
a housefull up here, and he gives her two cents for every 
boquet she sells." " And how many does she sell in a 
day ?" " Sometimes only two or three, and sometimes 
none." 

" Is this all the way you have to buy your bread and 
coffee ?" " No ; mother washes when she is well, 

but," Here she hesitated, and the sad look came 

over her face, I had noticed when I first asked about 
her mother. I could easily imagine why her mother 
was not well, but I did not wish to draw it from her, 
for oh ! it is the most humiliating of all trials when a 
child must blush for a parent's sins. 

There was not what 1 should call a single comfort in 
the room. The air was fetid, and everything was cov- 
ered with dirt and slime ; and yet here were two little 
girls alone, with only a drunken mother to care for and 
protect them. They were pretty, too, for which I could 
only pity them more. I could not stay longer now, 
but telling my little friend I would come again, I kissed 
her brow, and dropped a tear upon her cheek, and 
left them, praying that God who feeds the ravens and 
clothes the lilies of the field, would guard and guide 
them. 

I had only to cross from avenue to avenue to enter 



THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL. 301 

one of those princely mansions, the gorgeous folds of 
whose curtains sweep the floor— where silver and gold 
and satin and damask dazzle the eye, and surfeit the 
senses wath their very richness. As I ascended the 
staircase, and* passed the door of a Uttle room that 
looked as if the fairies might inhabit it, I saw a little 
girl asleep, with a bunch of flowers in her hand. She 
was one of those fair elfin creatures, with rosy cheek 
and golden curls which were lying in silken tracery all 
around her brow and neck ; the pillow and also the 
sheet that covered her were edged with lace ; one arm 
was thrown gracefully back above her head, and 
the other was clasping the boquet, which her mother 
said she had insisted on purchasing of a little girl whom 
she met in the street, and would not part with when 
she went to sleep. 

I could not know certainly, but I w^as willing to be- 
lieve that the poor little sleeper I had left on the pallet 
of straw was the very one of whom the flowers were 
purchased ; and could her w^eary aching eyes look in 
here her heart would be ready to burst at the contrast. 
All day long she must roam from street to street, 
crying, " Buy my flowers," to be repulsed with coldness, 
and sometimes stung by insult, and return at night 
to a drunken mother and coiufortless room and supper, 
less bed ; her little body shivering with cold, and her 
little heart chilled by neglect— with never a word of 



302 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

love to cheer, or kindness to encourage, this is all she 
knows of life — for her there is no gladness here, and no 
knowledge or hope of a bright hereafter. 

But this little sleeper before me breathes the atmos- 
phere of indulgent kindness, and is pillowed on the 
bosom of love. All around her are light and joy and 
gladsomeness ; and everything is lavished upon her that 
can tend to the expanding of her intellect or the culture 
of her heart. I lingered long to gaze upon her innocent 
beauty, and dwell upon the contrast in the homes of 
the little girls, so near together and so widely differ- 
ent ; and ere I turned away I pressed a kiss upon her 
brow, and dropped a tear upon Jter cheek, for my heart 
was bursting with thoughts my pen would not dare to 
utter. 

Oh, bright and glorious day, when mystery shall be 
dissolved, and all things shall be made clear to our 
clouded vision I Meanwhile, may God increase the 
measure of our hope and trust- and love; and fill our 
hearts with kindly charities, and strengthen our hands 
to dispense *' good gifts" among the " little ones," — 
such as when on earth He took in His arms, and cher 
ished in His bosom. 



^ |«lg 3W ^^^ ^¥ ^W S^tssissisjl 



AT Burlington, Iowa, we went on board the boat, 
and found it crowded, and old, and rickety, and fil- 
thy beyond anything we had before seen. There was 
not an empty berth in the ladies' cabin, so we were hon- 
ored by being permitted to occupy the state-room of 
the captain, which was as many as four inches longer 
and broader than those of the passengers, and really 
gave us so much space to breathe and move that we 
hardly knew what to do with ourselves. We could ac- 
tually turn round, and hang up our dresses, and look 

.(303) 



304 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

out of the window. But alas, for any visions of dreamy 
slumbers in the night time. Never before was I so as- 
sailed by enemies — " black spirits and white, blue spirits 
and grey." 

The thermometer indicated a temperature which one 
might denominate hot without being vulgar, and the 
pressure of the atmosphere was therefore sufficient to 
banish sleep, yet we might have caught a nap or two, 
had not the fleas and other animals been still less merci- 
ful. I was covered " from the crown of my head to the 
sole of my foot " with winged insects and " fourfooted 
things," and their bite was like that of scorpions. A 
young lady in the next I'oora arose and devoted herself 
to the work of slaughter for the space of three hours, 
insis ting that she had paid her passage — making her 
shoe a guillotine more bloody than any recorded in 
history. 

Hoping for some door of escape, I peeped through 
the lattice of my dormitory, which opened into the gen- 
tlemen's cabin, and there I saw the floor strewn so 
thickly with cots, in which were stowed living beings of 
every nation and hue, that to walk forth was impossible, 
and to breathe the heated and poisoned air quite as un- 
desirable. What should I do ? There was no alterna- 
tive but to lie down and resign myself to — bugs ! For 
a long time it seemed doubtful whether there would be 
anything left of me to tell the story. To wage war, to 



A JULY NIGHT ON THE UPPER MISSISSIPPI. 305 

fight, to flee, would have seemed glorious, but to lie pas- 
sive in the arms of such foes, without the prospect of a 
victorious crown, the " meed of praise," nor even the 
pleasure of struggling, was inglorious and humiliating 
indeed. 

But " all things must have an end," and so did that 
night ; and the morning dawned so proud and glorious 
that I could almost thank my enemies for compelling me 
to rise in season to " behold its appearing." There was 
not a cloud in all the sky, and a flood of golden light 
bathed the island and the stream, while the air came 
fresh and sweet, laden with life and health and strength 
to the weary. The prairie is no longer a dull monoto- 
nous waste ; the tall grass is waving to the breeze ; you 
jook abroad upon a wilderness of flowers, the " tasselled 
corn is bending o'er the teeming plain," and the cottage 
and cabin are surrounded by the tokens of cultivation* 
Eock Island sits like a beautiful gem on the waters, and 
busy towns are scattered all along the shores. 

A romantic story is related to every traveller in this 
region of a distinguished and handsome English ofiicer, 
who wandered into these western wilds, when the In- 
dian was still in possession, and fell in love with a beau, 
tiful Indian girl, whom he wooed and won and took to 
be his wife. He built a cabin on the river's bank, ac- 
commodated himself to Indian life and manners, and 
from youth to old age has remained seemingly content 



306 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

and happy, mingling but little in society, and not at all 
with people possessing tastes similar to his own. 

liis palate has been resigned to Indian cookery, and 
his habits to Indian housewifery ; and for one thing he 
certainly deserves commendation, that his heart has never 
wavered in its fidelity to the bride of his youth- 
She has ever retained her Indian dress, and I believe 
has never learned to read, yet has ever remained sole 
mistress of the affections of a highly cultivated and ac- 
complished man, accustomed to the refinement and lux- 
ury of English society. Their daughters have been 
educated at a popular boarding school, and are bright 
intelligent girls, but not so content as their father with • 
their home and mother — often manifesting mortification 
at their mother's manners and dress when she visited 
them, and expressing the wish that they were either 
English or Indian, and their position defined as either 
savai^e or civilized. 

It was indeed one of love's strangest freaks, and, as in 
many other cases, " there is no accounting for it." 



|i|itttto%"Iflrtsflf feitiffii." 



I HOPE it will be understood with what timidity I 
take my pen to give those a hint who are so muc.h 
unused to be instructed by " e« ivomen?^ But it is 
sometimes given to " the weak things of this world to 
confound the mighty, and though I do not wish to 
confound them^ I would like to enlighten them on one 
or two points. 

It is very often my lot to hear ladies when they have 
taken up a " Paper," exclaim as they throw it down, 

'' Dear me, nothing in it but law andpoliitcs, and stupid 

(307) 



308 THE MYRTLE WREA TH. 

old documents and police reports. Of what earthly 
use can they be. I wish they would have something 
that I can understand — something interesting." 

And here some wise gentleman looks over his spec- 
tiicles and remarks, ^'You ought to be able to un- 
derstand these — it would be much better for you 
than the silly love stories, or trifling articles which you 
like." But he does not take it into his wise head to 
consider that she was not educated to understand 
these things. It w^as not considered necessary for her 
in the sphere in which she was expected to move ! — 
She was told that men did not like women who " med- 
dled with politics," or soared to things above their com- 
prehension — and that they a little preferred those who 
were not able to comprehend. " So she did as she was 
told," like an obedient girl, for she wished to please you 
and get a husband ! 

Now he has one whom she thought would make an 
excellent wife because she was so quiet and so affection- 
ate, and looked up to him so reverentially ! But who 
now that the honeymoon is over, really wishes that she 
could talk about something sensible, and had a head 
as well as a heart. 

Neither does he take it into consideration that he has 
never taken pains to supply the defects of her educa- 
tion. Hours and days and weeks he has spent poring 
over the long stupid documents — devouring them all by 



A HINT TO THE LORDS OF CREATION. 309 

himself as if he were in bachelor's hall. All the long 
winter evenings he spends reading the " Papers" in 
silence, because, " his wife would not understand if he 
should read aloud," never offering by a little explanation 
a few passages of History or Biography so famil- 
iar to him to make even law and politics interesting to 
his companion. 

" Milk for babes," was St. Paul's advice, and it is as 
good a rule for the babes of literature. As it is im- 
possible for her to understand the long stupid documents 
which fill the newspapers, she should be provided with 
something which she can understand. There should at 
least be one corner for her. But here the " corps edi- 
torial" will remonstrate, *' are there not enough entirely 
devoted to their understandings. It is impossible to fill 
up any of our important corners with such trifles as 
please ladies." 

Yes, but there are a great many famihes scattered all 
over the country who can afford to take hut one 'paper ^ 
and this of course must be one w^hich has the most 
*' ship news," and the longest column devoted to the 
"price of stocks," and the ''New York market," — the 
fospect of a " war on the continent," and " the state of 
the whale fisheries." This is what gentlemen wish 
to know, and therefore they will know it ! " Ladies 
do not read newspapers to teach them how to darn 
stockings or make delectable soups." 



310 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

No, but they need something to give variety to tbo 
long weary hours, and more than all, they like to feel 
that they share your pleasures — that they are not help- 
mates merely for your animal gratification. Bring home 
a paper every night in one corner of which you are 
sure there w^ill be something your wife can appreciate, 
whilst she is mending your coat or rocking the baby, 
and she will mend it all the nicer, I assure you, and be 
inexpressibly happier whilst she is dohig it. 

And when she has learned to w^elcome the newspa- 
per for that lone corner's sake, she will begin to look it 
over for your sake, and try to understand, what inter- 
ests you. Then if you will only kindly and patiently 
teach her, you may soon have an intelligent companion 
to share your thoughts, and the little boy who is to re- 
ceive his first impressions from her lips, will be a wiser 
and a better man. 

She must have a motive for self-improvement, and the 
strongest one you can present is that she will thus add 
to 3'om' happiness. But do not sit there moping till she 
has become wise enough to entertain you or share your 
reading and conversation. Begin with entertaining her 
and prove to her that wisdom's paths are flowery, and 
allure her by culling the fairest and sweetest blosoms 
in the parterres of knowledge — and let her her see that 
among the sweetest fruits are patience, long suffering, 
sympathy and kindness. Let me tell you that life's 



A HINT TO THE LOKDS OF CREATION. 31 I 

thorny pathway would be smoother thus travelhng to- 
gether companions in all tilings^ than whilst you stride 
onward, never offering a helping hand to her who can- 
not keep pace alone. 



%fittkiogli)itIi|iipts; 



OB, 



TRUE BENEVOLENCE. 



AS I was walking home last night through one of 
the thoroughfares of the great city, I met many- 
little boys with bundles of faggots in their arms, 
and some tied with a hempen cord and slung upon their 
shoulders ; and having an inveterate habit (I will not say 
whether it is good or bad,) of speaking to all little 
boys and girls that I meet in the street, that look as if 
a kind word would be kindly received, I stopped to talk 

with these. 

(312) 



THE LITTLE BOY WITH FAGGOTS. 313 

To one, who seemed about twelve years of age, I 
said, *' what a nice parcel of wood you have, where do 
you pick it up ?" 

" Oh, out here where they are building," said he, and 
I knew instantly by the tones of his voice and the mild 
pleasant expression of his eye, and his respectful man- 
ner, that he either had a comfortable home and kind 
parents, or had experienced some sorrow which had 
softened him and exerted a purifying influence upon his 
boyish spirit. 

His clothes were very thin and tattered, and soiled 
too; his shoes were too large and his cap not large 
enough ; it evidently fitted him when he was many years 
younger, but his face, if it had belonged to one who 
was well dressed, would have been called handsome ; 
with him were two others, smaller and laden with a sim- 
ilar burden, but easily distinguished as belonging to a 
diflferent nation. Their round chubby faces and dumpy 
figures told that they were Dutch, but their countenan- 
ces also indicated they had the true Dutch good humor 
and warm heart. 

When I asked their names, the little boy said, point- 
ing to the largest one, '' he lives with us, but he is not 
ours ; he has no father nor mother, and no home, and so 
h e sleeps with us. 

I looked again upon that youthful face, and the lip 

was quivering and the tears were gathering in his full 
14 



814 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

dark eye, and I knew his lieart was throbbing quick and 
loud, and his Utile breast was heaving with emotions 
which none but the homeless and friendless can know. 
For a moment I could scarce speak myself, and know- 
ing that I must not stop to learn his histoiy in that 
noisy street, I asked the No. of their residence, and 
telling them I would call scon to see their mother, I 
bade them good night. 

Very early this morning I threaded my way through 
the narrow alley where I knew I must expect to find 
my little friends. As the poor need neither bars nor 
bolts to guard their treasures, when I reached the door 
I entered without ringing or knocking or waiting for an 
usher. 

I went on up stairs, but I must stop to say that the 
stairs were very clean and white, and looked as if they 
had been lately scoured, and at the next door I gently 
tapped, and Eobert, my little acquaintance of the night 
before, appeared before me as its opener. 

What a sight for those who dwell where luxury or 
even plenty reigns. In one little room were the father 
and mother and their six children^ and yet they had 
room for another who was " neither kith nor kin." * * 

The Saviour said, ** He that giveth a cup of cold water 
to one of these little ones in my name, he shall in no 
wise lose his reward." They had given more than the 
eup of cold water — food, shelter, ah yes, and more 



THE LITTLE BOY WITH FAGGOTS. 315 

Hum this — they had given him a httle corner in their 
ii»»jiE, and though it was what any of my readers woukl 
call a very dark and almost loathsome corner, it was 
very bright to him, because it was lightened all about 
with the halo of that sweet word welcome. 

Oh into how many glistening halls might he have 
gone, where the hangings were of gold and silver and 
tapestry, and where they had " room enough and to 
spare," and heard the hollow ringing of that cold word 
" depart." He might have asked of those, whose food is 
the richest and costliest which the market atfords, and 
whose drink is the sparkling juice of the vine, and they 
would have answered, " we know you not." 

I enquired how much the father earned by his daily 
labor, and he said, now he had a good place where he 
was paid four dollars a week. " And how much rent 
for this room and a little bedroom adjoining ?" '' Five 
dollars a month." Thus there is left not quite the 
wages of three weeks to feed and clothe nine, and yet 
they take an alien of whose birth and parentage they 
know scarcely anything, and bid him sit at their table, 
and warm himself by their lire, and sleep under their 
poor roof, as kindly and heartily as their own ! 

" How came you to know him at all ?" asked I. 
" Oh," said the mother, " my little boy found him in the 
street and he was crying bitterly because his mother 
was dead, and he had no home, and he brought him in 



316 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

and said, " mother, let him sleep with us ; he will be 
good and help us pick up sticks ; vvdl you, mother ?" 
so she said, " I could not refuse him — and he is a good 
boy, and does all he can to help us along." 

I then drew from him a little of his story, and found 
his birth-place was a western city; and when his parents 
died, knowing that he had a brother here, he came, with- 
out doubt that he should be kindly received, and found 
his brother worse than a stranger. He would not per- 
mit him to share his home, nor do aught toward pro- 
viding him with one 'elsewhere. So he went forth to 
beg, and strange it was that he did not learn to steal. 

Many a night he slept in the street in open carts, 
or wherever he could hide away ; and many days and 
nights he had not so much as a potato or a bit of bread 
to appease his hunger. He asked for work, but no one 
wished the sevices of so small a boy, one whom they 
did not know, and therefore could not trust. 

When weary with wandering he would lie down in 
despair, bathing the cold stones with his tears, and fall 
asleep wishing he might never awake, and in the morn- 
ing, cold and damp, and scarcely at all rested by his 
slumber, would arise to drag his aching limbs through 
another day, and sleep another night on the same cold, 
lonely pillow, beneath the same blue canopy. 

At length, among his street acquaintances, was a little 
boy, who learned to love and pity hun, and offered to 



THE LITTLE BOY WITH FAGGOTS. 317 

share with him his little corner, the portion of coarse 
food they could obtain, and a mother's care. 

It was a rude, unseemly place, but perhaps as clean 
and comfortable as the mother of seven children couM 
make it by nine o'clock in the morning ; and one very 
pretty sight met my eye on opening the door, a baby 
in a tub of water, splashing, and spattering, and crow- 
ing, as happy as the baby of any lady in the land. And 
when it was taken out, it was dressed as clean as a 
baby need be, and what mother was ever so poor, that 
she could not in some way obtain a ruffle for the 
baby's frock ! Oh yes, and it had a yellow frock too, 
and, with the little white ruffles in the sleeve, and the dim- 
pled shoulder peeping out above, it was a baby to be 
kissed, and seemed fully to understand its importance 
as it was handed frgm mamma to papa, and then to the 
" ladies," for this purp ^se. 

I offered the mother a book, and what was my sur- 
prise to learn that she could not read ; but she said her 
husband could, and the little boys — and one ran quickly 
and brought a Bible which had been given him at the 
Sunday school. 

This was the second instance I had found that morn- 
ing where the mother could not read, though the father 
could. 

So she did not learn self denial and disinterested be- 
nevolence from the Word of God, but her countenance 



318 THE 3IYRTLE WREATH. 

and converisation indicated a heart in which the Spirit 
of Truth and Love had taken up its abode ; and I could 
but hope that He who had begun the good work 
would perfect it, and that she was laying up her trea- 
sure in Heaven. 

There was a little girl of eight or nine years; " and 
what does she rk>," I asked, " to add her mite to the 
common treasury ?" " Oh I do not send her out," 
spoke the mother very sorrowfully, " I do not send her 
into the street, I must work very hard and suflfer very 
long before I send my little girl into the street ; she 
might be taken up, and I never know what became of 
her." 

The child was bright and pretty, and I understood 
the terrible fear of a mother's heart. 

They all seemed to love one another, but the most 
beautiful sight of all was the orphan boy, standing in 
their midst, his bosom swelling with the gratitude his 
lips could not speak, whilst each said some kind word 
for him, and with a delicacy which the most cultivated 
could not more than equal, tried to make him feel that 
he was a blessing and not a burden in their little house, 
hold. " Of those to whom much is given, much will be 
required." If the rich and prosperous are to be judged 
by this law, how will they answer in the great day for 
the treasures which God has enabled them to accumu- 
late? 



THE LITTLE BOY WITH FAGGOTS. 319 

How will they look upon the thousands of orphan 
children, whom they might have rescued from poverty, 
degradation and crime, and saved their souls from the 
penalty of guilt ? 

Here is a family, whose toil is the most menial of 
drudgery, without education, refinement, or intelligence, 
whose subtantial meals are not so much as the crumbs 
which fall from your table, and yet they divided with 
him who had none — " they have done what they could," 
and who is not ready to blush with shame, when he re- 
members his blessings and privileges and his abundant 
means, and thinks of what he has " left undone," in this 
great work ! 

How much need we have to pray that God will not 
reward us according to our deeds. May some heart be 
moved by this simple story in the annals of the poor, 
to feel for the orphan's woes, and listen to the orphan's 
cries — and wipe away at least, one poor orphan's tears. 



m SPRING, SUMMER, AUTUMN AND WINTER. 



SPRING. 

" "Will you walk into my parlor, 
Said the spider to the fly, 
'Tis the prettiest little parlor 
That ever you did spy." 

BUT I do not mean to ask you to walk into my par- 
lor this bright pleasant day in May. If you will 
sit down beside me on the terrace step, I will bid you 
look abroad on the most beautiful combination of 
mountain, meadow, stream and hill, your eyes ever be- 
held — a landscape whose name is beauty. 

(320) ' 



pun VALLEY. 321 

Here you shall be shaded by the moosemissa, that 
twines its branches in delicate tracery above your head, 
and over the trellis is creeping the Petunia with its tiny 
leaves just uncurling, and the little tendrils clasping 
confidingly the arms I have given them for support. 
This is on the brow of the garden hill; at the end of 
the walk at your left, a beehive is humming, humming, 
and all around are the trees in blossom, and the shrub- 
bery begins to " leave out." 

In front, on the border of the terrace, is a row of 
gooseberry bushes, and if you will come at noon and be 
very quiet, '' as still as a mouse," you shall see among 
the almost invisible flowers a dozen humming birds. 
Those little fairy creatures, poising in the air while 
they dip their bills in a hundred tubes, and fill the air 
with soft music, like that of the aEolian when the eve- 
ning zephyr plays. 

How many hours I sit and w-atch them here, — a thou- 
sand rainbow hues are glistening in the circle around 
the throat, and scarlet, green and golden is the crest. A 
leaf is sufficient to support them, and when they light, 
they seem scarcely larger than a bee, but how graceful 
every motion as they hop and turn about ; but in vain 
I look for those little net-w^ork wings among the span- 
gles where they rest. In all animated nature there ia 
nothing else so beautiful. 

Below at the foot of the hill is the orchard : this ia 



322 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

what we call it, because once it was a place where ap-' 
pies grew, but now it is a sort of "drawing-room " for 
Dolly the pony, or any little lamb who may have lost its 
mother, or a "handsome calf" who is to be "reared." 
Dolly walks lazily about as if she were " lady of the 
manor," and seems to understand that Charley and Katy 
are in the harness, or away over in the pasture, while 
she is permitted to browse and crop in a more fruitful 
and luxuriant field. 

The meadow is a semi-circle in its form, around which 
the river winds, and I get a peep at it now and then 
through the thick green foliage which droops upon its 
borders, while gradually rising from the opposite bank 
are those "old granite hills," which I have loved ever 
since I can remember. Did you ever see Moose Hillock ? 
Look then how he towers above all the surrounding 
hills. Bald he has been from his youth up, and whether 
he is afraid of catching cold, or whether it is a humor 
of his, I know not, but never more than a month in the 
year, and that in the very hottest weather, is he to be 
seen without his cap, his night-cap, we call it, though he 
wears it night and day. 

Ah, yes, very well do we know when Old Boreas is 
let loose, and the icebergs are coining, and snows are 
gathering and winter is coming, for Moose Hillock is 
first to cover his bald head and don his white robes, and 
not till his broad shoulders are bare norain do we feel 



OUR VALLEY. 323 

Rure that tho wind will not come sweeping down the 
valley, and blight all the leaves and tender blossoms. It 
is May as I said, and I can scarcely see the furrows on 
his face, deep and dark as they are, and his cap is drawn 
far down over his brow ; but stern and brown, and bur- 
ley as he is, there is not an inhabitant of the valley that 
does not love him and feel for him a peculiar reverence. 

At his feet sits Sugarloaf, in her blue morning dress 
and grey slippers ; but she sits up so prim and straight, 
and looks so unsociable, that w^e hardly think her a fit 
companion for her lord, the brave old country gen- 
tleman. 

Far away at his right stretch the black hills,— at 
full view from where we sit are the Franconia moun- 
tains, and farther on we have just a glimpse of the white 
hills, so grand and always hoary. Oh, the mountains, 
the mountains for me, let me live and die among the 
mountains ! 

Antiquarians and geologists, those learned people, 
say our valley was once a lake — a range of the Green 
mountains on the west forming a perfect amphitheatre 
with the granite hills on the east, completely enclosing 
us, the river being now the only remnant of what was 
once a large sheet of water. 

Elms, oaks, and butternuts, dot the meadows and 
shade the stream. Bold crags and cliflfs are jutting out 
here and there by the road side, and wild cataracts are 



324 THE MYIITLE WREATH. 

dashing down the precipices. Foutains are gleaming 
in the forest, and brooks are meandering through the 
dells. 

It is noon now, but if you will come again at sunset 
you shall see a sight as glorious as Italy can boast, when 
the mountains and the hills are clothed in crimson and 
the valleys seem a flood of gold. 

Now they fade, and the shadows come creeping on. 
The clouds rest on the hill tops and the dew is on the 
grass. Listen, and you shall hear the crickets from 
under every leaf, how cheerily they sing, and the frogs 
are making bass, treble and tenor, quartettes. If you 
will stay a little longer you shall hear the whipporwill ; 
every night she is there, but where I have never yet 
been able to learn. I have been sure she was in that 
tree, and when I came softly up, her song was far away 
under the hill, and if I followed* her there, her sorrow- 
ful strain would be echoing by the river bank. So I 
have given it up, and let her take shelter under her 
nomme de plume, or nomme de tune ; as long as she 
will sing "whipporwill" through all the summer eve- 
nings, concealed in her leafy bower, I will not ask her 
to appear on the stage. 

The cows have been milked and the hens have gone 
to roost, the villagers are strolling through the street, 
and the " boys are whistling as they go." The wcrk is 



OUR VALLEY. 325 

done up, and the matrons and maidens are knitting on 
the doorsteps or chatting by the gate. 

It is nine o'clock, the granaries are locked, the doors 
are closed, the lamps go out, and you and I must go in ; 
but if you will come another time I will tell you more 
about " Our Yalley," for I have not revealed to you 
half its charms. 



Summer. 

Now, dear Reader, are you ready ? If you are we 
will take a ride. A string of pearls is on every blade of 
grass, and diamonds are on every calyx, and leaf and 
flower. Every tree is a concert room, from which is 
pouring forth such melody as the walls of no Metropo- 
litan ever echoed. Oh, I hope you love the forests, 
fields and flowers, else I shall not be disposed to ask 
you to ride with me, especially in this cozy way, in the 
old chaise with Dolly the pony. See how very nice 
and sleek she looks — and she likes a ride almost as well 
as I. 

"Wo will go up by the river bank — how the waters 
gleam and sparkle in the morning sun ; and here is the 
eddy curling so gracefully underneath the rocks. How 



326 THE MYRTLE WJIEATH. 

many hours I have spent in chitdhood on that sunny 
bank, and climbing over those rocks. Here is where 
the bend in the crescent meadow begins, and those great 
boulders may be worn for ages by the current and they 
will not perceptibly diminish. 

On our right is the river, and on our left, " a little 
strip of meadow-land," " in which the farmer sows his 
seed," which yields abundantly of all the fruits of the 
earth." Across the river, too, is a meadow, and those 
two white cottages you see, looking like twins, are oc- 
cupied by two twin brothers, who have hved there all 
their lives and grown rich with the products of that 
little bit of land. There is a village near by, but I do 
not see as it has grown any since I can remember, and 
all along among the hills, as far as the eye can see, a 
steeple may be seen nestling among the trees. 

I wonder if it is association that makes the spire so 
picturesque and so welcome a sight to the traveller in 
New England ? 

Here comes a little brook, leaping and skipping and 
dimpling along. Oh, how I love its merry music. How 
man}'- castles, of new shingles, have I built upon its bor- 
ders, and how many hours with a troop of merry cou- 
sins have I " played go a-visiting" from castle to castle, 
where we have eaten and drunk from broken bits of 
china imaginary tea and pastry, with a better relish 
than any substantial viands have ever afforded since. 



OUR VALLEY. 327 

ITow many npple pies and dumplings I have made on 
that rock, with the sparkUng sand for spice and pebbles 
for plates. How many fishes I have tried to catch in 
those little nooklets with a crooked pin, and a bit of 
flannel for a " bait," which the fishes always knew better 
than to taste ! 

But Dolly does not care about these pleasant remem- 
brances, and is in a hurry to go on, — so here we are at 
the top of the hill, and here is an old castle of a house, 
that would pass very well for a ruin, and is emblemati- 
cal of the ruined hopes and expectations of him who 
built it. — He was a singing master, and sung himself 
out of house and home. Its present possessor is not 
given to " fixing up,'' and so there it stands, a blight on 
this fair scene. Near by is a little brook, and not far 
away I hear the music of the foaming cascade, as it 
bounds over the hill, and remember well how I once 
played truant, and climbed up among the bushes and 
crumbling rocks to take a shower bath, " all for 
nothing," and came very near being turned into a 
waterfall myself. 

But now look abroad, and whilst you are gazing I 
will tell you that I am not alone in thinking this one of 
the most beautiful landscape views this world affords. 

A friend of mine was dining at the American Hotel 
in Paris, and a gentleman whom she did not know, 
and who did not know her, was relating his journeyings 



328 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

and telling of the beautiful spots he had seen in the old 
world and in the new, when suddenly her attention was 
arrested by a picture she could not fail to recognise, 
for she had gazed upon it often from this very hilltop. 
He had been in every State in our Union, and in most 
of the countries of Europe, and he had found but one 
scene to rival this in loveliness, and that was in the north 
of France. 

Was not this a compliment to '' Our Valley," which 
we may be proud to repeat ? 

This is " IngalFs Hill," and for miles you can see the 
river winding through the luxuriant meadows, — the 
mountains stretching far away in the distance till they 
are lost in the blue ether, and I can point to you the 
spot where they come down to the very water's edge, 
on both sides of the stream, and terminate the valley on 
the South, by taking hold of hands, and giving the river 
only a very narrow passage to make its way onward to 
the sea. Only the artist's pencil can give you any idea 
of the beauty and variety which you can behold at one 
glance of mountain and valley, and river and streamlet, 
and dingle and dell. 

But look, there is something you might see only once 
in coming a hundred times. A deer has been startled 
from his leafy covert. Our voices have reached him — 
how he trembles — away he bounds, over the fence, up 
the mountain, and is lost in the forest. 



OUR VALLEY. 329 

Is it not a beautiful sight — how fortunate that yon 
came to day, for though I pass over very often, it is not 
as frequently as every season that a deer crosses my 
pathway. This is worth putting in your note-book. 

I am sometimes asked by those whose vision is 
bounded by brick walls, and who never even saw a 
mountain, if we are not afraid to go forth lest the bears 
and wolves devour us ? To which I answer, the bears 
and wolves have all departed, but we have plenty of 
dears! You have seen one, perhaps you will see more! 

There is a flock of ducks sailing in the river, arranged 
in regular rank and file. See them dip their heads in 
the water, first one, then all, without disturbing their 
soldierly dignity and etiquette. Did you know before 
that they always sail as the wild geese fly, in the form 
of a triangle, which is exactly the form of an old-fash- 
ioned harrow ? But I presume you know nothing about 
it, for they must be greater geese than any I ever saw 
if they permit their qua qua to be heard amidst the 
rattle, and clang, and clatter of a great city. They are 
great geese, but they are wiser than that! 

The meadows form the most delightful feature in the 
landscape. Here the river runs along close under the 
hill, and a little farther on makes a graceful curve, and 
flows smoothly between two rich intervals, which in 
another freak it soon terminates, and finds shelter be- 
neath an overhanffino^ clifl" on the other side. Here an 



330 THE MYIlTLIi: WREATH. 

elm and tliere an oak, and then ii butternut, is throwing 
its graceful shadows o'er the field, and if a painter had 
stood on this hill, and decided how many should be left 
for ornament, and how they should be arranged, I think 
the effect would not have been more perfect to your 
eye. 

We might stand all day gazing, and should not 
weary, but before we return I must take you into this 
old fashioned farm house, where you shall see how our 
worthy grandmothers lived, for the maiden ladies, who 
dwell here, adhere to the primitive simplicity of the 
olden time. 

Their father was a brave soldier in the wars, and they 
had two brothers ; one who went to seek his fortune in 
other lands, and the other who lived with them unmar- 
ried till he died, and left them algne to " keep house " 
and take care of the farm ; and should you see how 
well they manage it you would be convinced what wo- 
man can do when thrown upon her own resources. 

Here you shall walk upon the " sanded floor," upon 
which you may be careful not to " drop your bread and 
butter," and look upon unpainted walls scoured to snowy 
whiteness. You shall see beds of down and patchwork 
quilts, and blankets of wool w^hich they "picked" and 
carded, and spun and wove, and sheets made of flax 
which they raised and bleached, and " made into cloth ;" 
rivaUing even " Holland " itself 



OUR VALLEY. 331 

The table-cloth will dazzle your eyes, as will also those 
rows of pewter on the " dressers," and you will wonder 
by what process these knives and spoons are burnished ; 
and I shall be obliged to tell you that" they use an in- 
gredient which is almost banished from modern kitch- 
ens, though so plenty in the days of our grandames, 
which is, " elbow grease." You shall have " boiled 
dish " for dinner, and tea, real " Suchang," in those tiny 
cups, and " puff biscuit" and batter which looks as if 
it were made of butter cups, and such a dumpling as 
you never tasted. And you shall be regaled with con- 
versation that is as rare as your repast, so spiced with 
common sense and mother wit, and anecdotes of the 
early settlers — for they are old ladies now — and you 
shall admire (if you do not I will never forgive you,) 
their dresses of genuine homespun, cut after a pattern 
which hfis not varied for fifty years, and which has per- 
mitted them to enjoy health all the days of their lives. 

Here they have lived always, entirely secluded from 
the world, seldom ever visiting their neighbors, and 
never indulging in gossip, and seemingly contented and 
happy. The rudest lips never mention their names but 
w^ith respect, and the most indifferent heart yields a 
cordial tribute to their homely virtues. With what a 
hearty welcome you are invited to come again, and is 
not such hospitality the richest treat you have had for 
many a day ? 



332 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

We must go home now, and Dolly is in fine order 
too, forshe has been cropping clover. See how she 
pricks up her ears, now she is homeward bound ; I shall 
alvvaj's quarrel with those wTio deny to her thought and 
intelligence. 1 had rather take a ride with her any time 
than with some stupid bipeds I could mention, and some 
day we will take another, dear reader, you and I, and 
see if she does not enjoy it as well as we 



AUTUMN. 

I hope you have not forgotten me, and Dolly the pony, 
though it is a long while since I asked you to take a 
ride. 

Just now I am sitting on the terrace steps, and Dolly 
is in the orchard that I told you about at the foot of 
the hill, and lazy sheep are scattered over the fields be- 
yond. The men are harvesting in the meadows, and 
one of those light delicate veils of haze is spread over all 
the hills and valleys, for which our Autumn, and espe- 
cially our Indian summer, is so renowned. 

Oh 1 for the painter's magic pencil, that I might place 



OUR VALLEY. 333 

it before you in all its beauty, this little valley of ours, 
for 

" There's not in this wide world a valley so sweet 
As this vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet." 

The mountains are just now in their glorious autumn 
hues, and a slight breeze stirs the leaves to give them a 
gentle motion. I hear the music of their rustling, and see 
the ever varying lights and shadows on the hill side, and 
by the stream ; a few birds are lingering here and there 
upon the branches, and send forth a deeper and more 
melodious song — at least it seems so to me — because 
perhaps it is a little tinged with sadness; for I know 
they do not like to leave their summer homes and me 
here among the mountain wilds, and flee far away. Oh, 
I am guilty often of wishing with the little boy in the 
primer that " summer would last always." I am sad at 
her departing, but if she were always here I should 
not have the joyous thrill which returning Spring sends 
through my soul, and the glad songs of the myriads of 
songsters, as glad as I, at the brightness and freshness, 
and beauty of the spring-time ; neither should I have 
this delicious dreamy sadness which infuses itself 
through my soul, and gives a mellowness to my feelings, 
that is sweeter than joy 

The snows are kinder than usual this season, and 
Moose hillock is still bald — grand old mountain that he 
is — how I wish I could make you as much in love with 



334 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

him as T am. But there are no humming birds now, 
and the gooseberry bushes have laid aside their summer 
robes. 

The delicate tinted summer flowers, too, are gone ; 
but the gay marigolds are in all their glory, and the 
little violets are the very last to hide their heads, because 
the coarse bleak wind is coming, and never for the 
rudest blast do they turn pale. They are conscious of 
their purity and truth, and like many other modest 
flowers, will live and blossom w4iere they can be most 
useful, smiling alike in the storm and the sunshine — 
looking up so cheerful with their cheeks resting upon 
the brown earth whilst all their companions are shrink- 
ing and withering, and all the green leaves are faded. 
Oh! how I love them; and not for all the grand par- 
terres in Christendom would I part with this little bed 
of violets, that even the frost and the snows cannot 
chill. 

Here is the bright little snow arop, too. — The leaves 
are all scattered, and the berries are left alone on the 
slender woody stem, and yet it is not disheartened. I love 
all things that bear up courageously, and quietly per- 
form their mission, let what will oppose. 

There is now and then a butterfly flitting about, 
and a catterpillar under every dead leaf, but the bees 
have ceased their humming, and w^e have stolen a good- 
ly portion of their summer labor, for our Valley is a 



OUR VALLEY. 335 

land " flowing with milk and honey," and many oUior 
delicious tilings, as I will prove to you, dear reader, if 
you will come and take tea with me some time. You 
have no idea what delicious pies I can make, though 
very likely you will not beheve a word of it, because 
you know I am in the habit of flourishing this old 
goose quill so dextrously ! 

You think I know nothing about pudding sticks ; 
how I wish you could just taste of my hominy, which I 
make in a little kettle over one of Stewart's stoves, and 
'A'hich, when finished, we eat in little blue bowls, up to 
the riiti in milk. And if you don't like hominy you may 
have sweet apples. Why, yes, and baked pumpkin, 
w^hich will make your mouth water for ever after. And 
such hoe cakes, and drop cakes, and griddle cakes, and 
all kinds of cakes, so much the sweeter, you know, for 
my fingers having been in them ; and I assure you the 
ink was all washed off ! 

But I reully intended, when I began, to ask you to 
take another ride over the hills, or down to the village, 
or out to the Lilly pond ; for the ways we might go are 
innumerable, and Dolly really looks disappointed that 
she cannot go, just because I have been so long gab- 
bing away here about nothing. But it is too late now 
— the days are short, and we should not get home be- 
fore dark : so you must excuse me though we will take 
a little walk, if you please. 



'•^'J^ THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

" Down the lane" is one of my favorite strolls ; and 
tliough it would be more polite, perhaps, to leave the 
choice to you, I take the liberty of deciding, because I 
am so much better acquainted with the localities. If 
we pass along under the hill, and jump over this fence, 
(I am sorry to ask you to do so unladylike a thing, but 
there is no other way,) and then through these bars, we 
come to the spot where the first house was built, more 
than a hundred years ago. It is what you would call a 
hut ; but in it there lived a good man " all of the olden 
time," and a wife who was a genuine help-meet in the 
days of " wars and rumors of wars," and there grew up 
children and children's children, who have been an 
honor to Church and State. 

The ashes of the old house are still here, a little fur- 
ther on, near the river's. bank, are yet to be seen the 
remnants of an Indian Camp, for this crescent meadow 
was once their favorite camping ground, and often the 
plough and spade bring to light some of their rude 
implements, a war club, or hatchet, or arrow, where are 
now cultivated the rich uroducts of weath and civihz- 
ation. 

The river here is distmguished by the name of " The 
falls," though I can hardly tell why, as there is no ^ter- 
ce'ptihle ^^ falli?ig from its high estate ;^^ and here it is 
shaded by magnificent oaks, and elms, andbutter nuts ; 
underneath them on this little plat would be a nice 



OUR VALLEY. 337 

place for a pic-nic ; and if you will come to see me in 
the " merry month of June," we will have one, and you 
shall see whether I can do nothing but scribble. But it 
will never do to be out after sun-set, so I must bid you 
good night. 



WINTER. 

You will wonder what I can have to say for Our Val- 
ley in Winter, when we are all buried up in snow ; but 
you are not capable of appreciating what is grand, if 
you do not think it a glorious sight when the sun rises 
over Moose hillock on a winter's morning, and every 
snow-flake is a glistening star; when the icicles are 
hanging from every tree and roof, and the plain is like 
a sea of molten silver. Never am I more in love with 
the mountains, than on a cold day in January, when a 
fierce storm is raging and the winds are howling, and 
the dark forest trees are swaying to and fro, scattering 
their fleecy robes upon the hill sides. 

A snow storm ! It almost chills one to speak it, and 
it is not very pleasant to endure; but to stand where 
you are shielded from its rage, and see it sweep through 
]5 



338 THE MYRTLE WnEATII. 

the valley, is to gaze on a scene which only ii storm at 
sea can equal. But when it is over, what a merry time 
we have, peering through the snowdrifts which have 
piled themselves to our very roofs, and what a famous 
shovelling and sweeping there is over all the neighbor- 
hood, before we can be neighbors. Then the snow- 
paths, are they not clean and nice, with walls on each 
side above your head — what a pleasant sound is the 
creaking of your new boots as you hurry along — how 
much younger you look when the mountain breeze has 
kissed your cheek, and if you are a lady this is of great 
consequence ! and how much younger you feel when re- 
freshed by a draught of the morning air, which comes 
to you fresh from the fountains where it is distilled, with 
jiothing but purity to breathe on as it passes. 

But you would like to know what we do in winter- 
time to amuse ourselves, and help the weary hours to 
drag away. Oh, we know nothing about weary hours 
like you city people. We are quiet " country folks," 
and the days roll pleasantly along without any special 
assistance. 

We call it Fall till the snow comes, and. then Winter 
till it is gone, and this is the longest season of the year. 
But w^e are so well acquainted with him, that Winter al- 
ways finds us ready. We know very well what a frown 
he will w^ear if there is an ear of corn uuharvested, or 
pumpkin left in the field. Every farmer, when he is 



OUR VALLEY. 339 

married, listens to this solemn injunction from the lips 
of the minister : 

" Be kind, be good, 
And keep your wife in oven-wood." 

And it is most religiously remembered. All the wood- 
sheds are full of "four-foot sticks," which "the bo3's " 
spend their leisure hours in " sawing," before school or 
when it is too stormy to go " sledding." 

Our first grand festival is Thanksgiving, but I have 
told you about that in another place. The three weeks 
previous are spent in feeding the chickens and " cram- 
ming the turkeys," making the pies, and " getting things 
ready." There is some pleasure in having a feast when 
you have only one in a year, and the pleasure of a coun- 
try Thanksgiving lasts a whole month. 

By the time it is fairly over, it is the week to " kill 
pigs !" You are wondering if I call this one of the 
amusements ! In the eyes of some people excitement 
and amusement are synonymous, and most surely it is a 
time of great excitement when some twenty or thirty 
stout porkers are led forth to slaughter. The men and 
buys, and especially the butchers, seem to enjoy it ex- 
ceedingly, and the old lady who is the presiding genius 
in the kitchen in all the country round on those occa- 
sions, is in her element. What great fires are necessary 
for the great kettles, and what a great sputtering is kept 
up by their contents. 



340 THE MYllTLE WliEATII 

If you never " made sausages/' or " scraped souse," 
I shall not be able to convince you that it is a very sci- 
entific and interesting process. What wise consultations 
are held whether sage or " sumnier savory " is the " best 
seasoning," and as to the best process of '' taking out 
spare-ribs " and " curing hams," — how " pork should be 
salted," and " beef put down." But the worst part of 
it is that we are obliged to eat such enormous quanti- 
ties in order to keep it from spoiling 

So the " killing pigs " keeps the house in a turmoil a 
whole week. At the end of this time we begin to think 
of Christmas, though among the genuine descendants 
of the Puritans this is not permitted to take its place 
among the festivals. We make a few more pies, though 
there are yet left several rows of those which were made 
in honor of Thanksgiving, and perhaps roast a turkey, 
bake a chicken-pie, and " go into some of the neighbors 
and spend the evening," where we have apples, pop corn 
and butternuts for '^ refreshments," and talk about the 
"news" in the "last paper;" and "news" is not so 
plenty in our village that it is an " old story." 

Every morning somebody goes to the Post Offic© 
and as often as once or twice a week somebody has a 
letter. Two or three times in the course of the winter 
we " have company," and such luxuriant " teas " as we 
have, and such merry times, where conijjany is a rarity ! 

There is no good thi/ig in ail the catalogue of cookery, 



OUR VALLEY. 341 

with which the table is not loaded, and the centre dish is 
a pyramid of that delicious honey, which was made by 
the bees that I told you about. There are biscuits as 
" light as a feather," and cold bread for dyspeptics — 
there are mince-pies and apple pies, and tarts^ plum cake, 
pound cake, loaf cake, and " cake that is so plain it will 
not hurt you if you eat ever so much ;" there are 
quince preserves and peach preserves, and plum — be- 
sides the honey — four plates of butter and two plates 
of cheese — and such butter and such cheese, as is made 
only in Our Vallley. 

So you see it is not what some people call a tea, where 
you have a thimble full of the steaming beverage, a bit 
of bread and cake just the size of your tongue, and the 
rest in gentility. 

" New- Years " is not made '' much account of;" the 
young people perhaps " get up a sleigh-ride," and the 
old people pay a visit to the minister ; but before Jan- 
uary departs, we have a " thaw," and during this I 
really cannot say much for Our Valley. It is neither 
Winter nor Spring, nor any other respectable time. 
The leaves do not dare to come out and the river does 
not dare to run — and yet they are exceedingly rebelhous 
in their bonds. 

Sometimes we have a freshet in mid-winter, when the 
ice breaks up with a great crash, and bridges are " car- 
ried awav" — the meadows are overflown and trees up- 



342 . THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

rooted, and " great damage " is done to " property " for 
miles up and down the river. This causes great excite- 
ment, and gives us opportunity for sympathy and ear- 
nest talk for weeks. 

During February, which is the coldest month, we hur- 
roiv very much like the animals. It is of no use trying 
to do anything but keep warm, and even this is not quito 
possible. There are not so many storms, but every- 
body you meet will say, "it is bitter cold " — the very 
air is blue — you can see it and feel it, though it moves 
not — it is heavy and still, and presses upon you like a 
weight. Yes, w^e begin to grow a little weary of win- 
ter before he is gone, and are never guilty of " wishing 
winter would last always." The jingle of the bells, as 

" Swift we go 
O'er the fleecy snow," 

becomes less musical — the snow-birds and blue-jays are 
pretty and sprightly, but they do not sing. The low- 
ing of the kine is not a pleasant sound from the stall — 
and though Dolly the pony is just as clever, and " car- 
ries a sleigh beautifully," we lose our sociability. I can- 
not spend so much time talking with her and patting 
her ; and she evidently does not enjoy the rides as she 
does in Summer, when we jog along so cozily. 

Yes, we are glad when the sun revisits our northern 
sphere, and bids the waterfalls go dancing again, the 
rills leap forth, the trees blossom, and the grass spring 



OUR VALLEY. 345 

up. How everything awakes with light and life and 
joy. Oh yes, and then it seems to us that Our Valley 
is more beautiful than ever. 

And who has seen the merry April shower 
When dancing on the springing grass ; and watched 
The curling bud and tender leaf unfold 
To drink the crystal di'ops, and give their first 
Fresh perfume forth, to bathe the zephyr's wing 
And fill the air with fragrance — ^heard the songs 
Of birds from every bush and tree-top — seen 
The bright green moss o'erspread the crumbling rock 
And fallen tree, and heard some joyous sound 
From every living thing, and has not felt 
His heart beat warm with gratitude and love? 
The Hand that ruled the wintry wind, and quelled 
The raging storm, now leads the sunshine forth, 
And beauty glides o'er all the waking earth. 



%mlm. 



How often have I gazed with pleasure, on the face 
where rested that peculiarly bright yet quiet ex- 
pression, which nothing else in life can give, but a happy 
love. There is no longer the restlessness of her whose 
affections are still wandering about, and find no rest- 
ing place. There may be yet a thousand plans for her 
to make — she may be still ignorant of the place of her 
future home — she may anticipate a Aveary journey and 
wandering life, but there is no sleepless anxiety or 
troubled thought — her heart has found a home ! 

(344) 



AMELIA. 345 

The admiring homage of thousands would not now 
add one gleam to her smile — one glance alone can light 
it with unwonted brightness. No skillful physiogno. 
mist need falter a moment in reading the countenance of 
a true-hearted woman. Amid all the lights and shad- 
ows, there is one pure, softened ray, which nothing else 
can kindle in the eye of the betrothed. Not less pure, 
but more brilliant, is that of the wedded wife, but with 
none of the sparkling flashes of the coquette ! 

Never was this more perceptible than in Amelia. — 
Hers had never been a fluttering heart, nor a spirit dis- 
turbed by every passing breeze. If any censure had 
been spoken concerning her, it would have been that she 
had not sufficient animation, and uian}^ would have seen 
in her few attractions. 

It was in her home and at the fireside that she must 
be seen to be appreciated. She was not one of the or- 
naments of society ; for she mingled not with the world, 
and her great reserve and extreme sensibility deterred 
her from active interest in others. . It was only a confid- 
ing friendship that understood her character, the pervad- 
ing element of which was sweetness ; and I did not know 
her with the intimacy of sweet communion, till grief had 
entered her bosom, and was performing with fidelity the 
silent work of the destroyer. 
" Day by day, I saw her happy, and I knew, what all 
15* 



346 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

the world knew then, that she was engaged to Eobert 

S ; and all who knew him said he was a noble, 

high-nxinded man, worthy of Amelia. He had not 
wealth, but the ambition and energy which insure the 
attainment of it. He was intellectual, intelligent, and 
fascinating ; and many and warm were the congratula- 
tions they received, as the bright prospect opened be- 
fore them. 

How often have I found her reading a letter, and 
" from whom can it be ?" I would whisper archly ; but 
I had only that beaming smile for answer, as she would 
lift the lid of a beautiful papier mache box — his gift — 
and show me a dozen, among which this would be de- 
posited, and then she quickly turned the key, lest they 
should be desecrated by even a look from indifferent 
eyes. 

She had a bible which he gave her, too ; and it was 
ahvays lying on the little table by her bedside, to read 
the last thing before she shut her eyes to dream of him, 
and the first to meet them in the morning. 

How she loved to talk of their home, and how happy 
she was with her needle preparing for domestic coni- 
fort, and planning household arrangements. How 
proudly she exhibited the chest of linen and the patch- 
work quilts, in which were no stitches but those by her 
own fingers 

For a year this happiness lusted, and then he left her 



AMELIA. 347 

for a distant clime. As they talked over the " days of 
absence." she would sometimes say, " And what if you 
should change, Eobert ?" But this she did without a 
thought that it could ever happen ; he w^ould as soon 
have thought of suicide as change. 

In a year he would be back again, and then they 
would part no more forever. Every pleasant haunt was 
visited, and every fond vow repeated. Her cup of hap- 
piness was full ; and for many weeks, aye, months, no 
doubt or fear disturbed it. 

His letters were, at first, the gushing springs from the 
overflowing fountain ; but by degrees they became cold 
and restrained. Every expression of affection seemed 
forced, and she felt the contrast, before her mind could 
decide in what it existed. 

It was an effort now to be cheerful ; yet she chid 
herself for distrust. She looked within her own bosom, 
and said, *' It is impossible the heart can change." Again 
she wandered by the brook and in the grove, to rekindle 
the memory of those solemn pledges, to revive the look, 
the tone, so dear to her ; and then would hope spring 
up again, and she would feel sure that time would un- 
fold the mystery, and all would be right — that is, as her 
heart wished. 

Shall we follow him to those sunny bowers ? It is 
possible for us, though impossible for her ; I heard it 
from his lips, and therefore it must be true. 



348 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

He is not alone ; there is one ^Yho talks and walks 
and reads with him. and with whom he thinks it no 
harm to talk, to walk, and read ; for she only wishes for 
intellectual companionship. Her weeds, which are very 
becoming, contrast strikingly with her deHcate com- 
plexion ; but he has not learned to read those dark eyes, 
or he would see something more than intellect in their 
unhallowed glances. She knows he he has left his heart 
far away in a northern clime, and talks to him freely of 
his beloved one, and also of her own desolation — her 
heart is in the grave ! 

Ah, man is not alone the seducer — woman, is not 
alone the victim ! 

He has fallen ; but her family are among the proud and 
aristocratic — disgrace must not fall on them. He has 
sinned and w^'onged, and must make the only reparation 
now left, to redeem the daughter of the house from 
infamy ! 

For Amelia, there was ik> longer the pretence of 
affection ; the letters ceased, but without explanation ; 
and at length hope died ; but love could only cease with 
life. No censure passed her lips, and no murmur was 
heard from her sinking spirit. 

I^ay by day the bloom faded from her cheek, and 
sorrow was written upon her brow. I knew she w^ould 
die, for her mind was not one that could be diverted by 
amusement, or find employment by concentration of 



AMELIA. 349 

mental energy. When there was no longer any object 
for her affections, life was without interest, and there 
was nothing to preserve even physical strength. 

She could not endure the thought of mingling again 
with the thoughtless, for her delicate nature would 
shrink from the look of pity, and would wither beneath 
the look of scorn ; and well she knew that both would 
be directed towards her — desertion being almost as 
sure a mark of degradation as sin and shame, in vulgar 
minds — the envious would rejoice and the malicious 
triumph. 

I knew that she had only a little while to live, and I 

wrote to Robert S a reproachful letter such as I 

thought one deserved who had thus trifled with and 
trampled upon such a heart. 

He answered it ; but he did not try to palliate his guilt. 
He was married, and silence was his duty, now ; and 
any expression of sympathy or regret would be only 
mockery. 

I prepared the way for conveying this intelligence to 
Amelia, as well as I could, knowing that I could not 
soften it, so that it would not prove the death-blow, yet 
still thinking it best not to withhold the stroke. 

The fountain of her tears had long been dry, and 1 
hoped this would bid them gush forth again. I even 
dared to hope that something like scorn and hatred 
might be fostered in her bosom. This can be done 



350 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

where only fancy or passion has existed ; but anything 
like revenge, or wish to injure, can never occupy the 
place true love has once usurped in a noble heart. 

She had lingered through the summer, and faded 
with the flowers, yet she was not confined to her bed ; 
and every day I read to her, and brought her garlands 
from the wood — those wild vines and blossoms which 
she had so loved in health — and tried to cheer her with 
the hope of again enjoying the pleasures of life. But 
this she did not desire ; she had put her trust in Heaven, 
and would talk of being reconciled to live, and the hope 
of being useful, if God saw fit to keep her yet a little 
longer in the world ; but death w^as the messenger she 
longel to meet, and she did not doubt of happiness in 
Heaven. 

The iron had entered too deep for the wound to heal ; 
she could not recover from such a shock. But I had 
no idea she was so near her end, and day after day put 
ofi" repeating w'hat I knew must break the last link that 
bound her to earth. If I had reflected a little more 
deeply, I should have withheld it. 

It was one of those delicious Indian summer evenings, 
when even the invahd needed not to shun the window, 
though the golden tinge of Autumn was over all the 
hills, w^hen she sat with her wasted hand in mine, and 
both were resting on the Bible, that T, for the first time 
for many weeks, alluded to him who had wrecked her 



AMELIA 351 

hopes and crushed her heart. There was no bitterness 
in her words — some mystery, she said ; she could not 
beheve it was deHberate wrong. 

I showed her the letter; she read it through, folded 
it, and laid it upon the window sill, and said she would 
like to answer it, if I would write what she wished to 
say. 

They were a few words, expressive of confidence in 
his truth ; for by inspiration she seemed to understand 
what no one else had faintly conjectured. She spoke 
of suffering, and of forgiveness— she should soon be in 
her grave ; but whilst she lived, her heart would remain 
true, and in death there would be no change. 

She had ceased to speak, and the shadows of evening 
were gathering around us. A cold shudder passed 
over her frame, a single flush crossed her pallid cheek, 
and then a dark shadow seemed to settle for a moment 
upon her brow. I soon saw it covered with the clammy 
dews which gather there only when the icy hand of 
death is upon the heart; a few hurried and scarcely 
audible respirations followed, and her spirit had fled, 
" where sorrow, wrong, and trouble, can never torture 
more." 

I was left alone with the clay, and could not mourn 
that it was no longer tenanted. I pressed the lids upon 
those eyes which had so often beamed upon me with 
affection, loft the sad office of watcher to another, and 



352 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

sought the solitude of my room, to weep *' in agony that 
would not be controlled" — not that she had gone — oh, 
no ; it was merciful to take her away ; but I wept for 
the sufferings of a fallen world. This is the history of 
many — oh, how many — hearts ! 

To the majority of women, love is life — it is all they 
have to live for ; and when it is taken away, they have 
not, like men, a profession, business, travel, and plea- 
sure to divert and occupy their minds. It is a sorrow 
they can never tell to seek the healing balm of sympa- 
thy — they have only to sit down and endure. 

Oh, the sin and wrong it is to trifle with affection — the 
purest, holiest, noblest gift which our Heavenly Father has 
bestowed. It is the redeeming element in a fallen world. 
And a nature which is base enough deliberately to plan 
the ruin of a trusting, loving heart, or so lost as to look 
with indifference upon the wreck which falsehood and 
betrayal have effected, is only fit for the companionship 
of fiends and the prince of darkness. 

But Robert S was not one of these. I had 

scarcely returned from the solemn ceremony of consign- 
ing " dust to dust, and ashes to ashes," when I was star- 
tled by the entrance of him whom Amelia had hoped to 
see once more; and she was scarcely more changed in 
the last days before her death, than he seemed as he 
stood before me 

I could not w^elcome him, and shrunk from the grasp 



AMELIA. 



353 



of his hand ; but he was not a subject of envy as he 
listened to the story of her suffering, and felt in every 
nerve the story of her wrong. 

He besought me to spare my reproaches, for he 
needed pity more than blame; and I could not withhold 
my compassion, as I heard the confirmation of the 
words of the wise man, written so many years ago, that 
"many a strong man has been slain" by the "fair 
speech " and " flattering lips " of the " subtle heart." 

I went with him to the mound which covered the new- 
made grave, and could no longer doubt the agony of 
his soul, as he knelt upon the green turf, and shed the 
tears which seemed wrung from his breaking heart, and 
prayed to be forgiven. 

I stole silently away, and left him alone with his God. 



RECEIVED ON A SICK BEI>, 



Here blooms the fair Camellia, 
With its robe of purest white, 

Beside a blushing rosebud 
Just opening to the light ; 

And here are sweet Geraniums 

Of every varying hue, 
Entwined in pleasing contrast 

With the Heliotrope of blue. 

(354) 



THE WINTER BOQUET. 355 

Tliere slyly peeps the Daisy, 

So lowly in its birtli, 
AYhere proudly peers the evergreen 

To shelter modest worth. 



And there are countless blossoms 

In crimson blushes too, 
While fringed and tasseled leailcta 

Half shield them from the view. 



It is a beauteous garland, 
And beauty's spell I own, 

Yet o'er these clustering ilow'rcts 
A holier charm is thrown. 

The gift of one whose friendship, 

And self-denying lovej 
It needs not time to halwo, 

Adversity to rove ; 

Whose heart with fervent sympathy 

In time of trial glowed, 
And from whose bosom pity 

In gentle current flowed ; 



356 THE MYKTLE WREATH. 

"With brow all brightly beaming, 
Where loftiest beauty smiled, 

She came with these poor emblems 
To bless affliction's child. 

•How sweet to breathe, the fragrance 
Their dewy leaves impart, 

But sweeter far the fountain 
Warm gushing from the heart. 



teljtrsat50it m m ^xL 



D'R. Johnson made it a study before going out, where 
he should meet those whom he would be expected to 
entertain, what he would say and how he should say it, 
in order to please and in order to instruct. His sayings 
at dinners, clubs, and tea-parties are famiHar as house- 
hold words, but it is not now remembered w^hen we re- 
peat them, how much time he spent in preparing them, 
and the idea of studying fine things to say^ would strike 
many as foolish, and betraying vanity, yet I see not 
why we should not study as intently to talk well as to 

write well. 

(357) 



358 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

We have the " table talk" of Coleridge and Hazlitt 
and many other great men, and we read it as if all these 
pearls and gems dropped from their mouths without 
any previous polishing, when, I doubt not, they were 
coined and moulded, wrought and re-wrought, with as 
much attention and skill, as anything in their written 
productions ; and as what is said with the living voice 
is much more impressive than what is written, and must 
therefore be more potent for good or evil, why should 
we not study what we say 1 

Some one will probably answer that the occasions 
for conversation suggest the subjects, and we cannot 
know whom we are to meet or what they may say, and 
therefore cannot be prepared with tojncs or replies for 
the thousand meetings with as many different persons, 
to which we are liable. Certainly not, but there are 
many people who are expected, from position, or edu- 
cation, or circumstances, to introduce subjects for con- 
versation, and to take the lead, wherever they may be, 
and those who are thus promoted should be able to talk 
" to edification," and say something that will do good, 
though they speak but a few moments, and with those 
whom they are never to meet again. 

And I have thought upon the subject with special re- 
ference to the education of woman. I have even 
imagined that conversation could be taught, as an art, 
in school, and young ladies prepared for a sphere of 



CONVERSATION AS AN ART. ^59 

usefulness more extensive and more potent than any- 
other within the range of her powers or of her acknow- 
ledged " rights and privileges," and I fearlessly add 
that if this one gift were cultivated as it should be, and 
might be, neither the rostrum nor the forum — if they 
were granted to her — would open a field of usefulness 
at all to be compared to it. 

I know a lady who cultivated this power, and used it 
so discreetly and effectively, that hundreds acknow- 
ledged her as the instrument of their soul's salvation. 

There are few sentiments which pass into a proverb 
without some foundation in truth, but would that there 
was justice in the universal slur cast upon the garru- 
lousness and gossipping propensities of women. That 
they talk, and talk what does more evil than good, is 
the reputation they have, whether they are entitled to it 
or not. But it is time they were redeemed from this 
latter portion of the aspersion, and there is no way of 
accomplishing it, but by making the art of conversation 
an important branch of her education — something to be 
acquired and kept in view as a most effective means of 
usefulness. 

That those who are educated will make this use of 
their knowledge, that they will of course converse about 
what they know, are not inferences we are justified in 
drawing from past experience. The young ladie^ who 
acquire what is called a good education are now very 



360 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

numerous, and yet it is scarcely less proverbial that the 
majority of ladies " talk about nothing." 

It is not a knowledge of booi^s, merely, that entitles 
the posessor to be considered well-educated or culti- 
vated, nor that enables her to teach well or to converse 
well. I have heard those who were principals of semina- 
ries, and constantly applying for and receiving applica- 
tions for teachers, say, that there were few whom they 
could recommend or employ as such. They had 
studied enough, but they had not incorporated the 
thoughts of others with their owm — they had no origin- 
ality, had never learned to think for themselves ; and 
to repeat parrot like what others have thought and said 
is neither interesting nor instructive. 

When boys are in school and college they look for- 
ward with certainty to a profession, and are continually 
reminded of the use they are to make of what they 
learn ; they are continually turning it over and thinking 
how they shall make it the instrument of promoting 
their fortunes or their fame, and so it becomes a por- 
tion of them ; " they are to live by their wits," while 
girls are too apt to grow up with the impression that 
their success depends in not having any wits at all, at 
least in not making use of them. 

It has, to be sure, been reiterated in their ears from 
tim^mmemorial, that " there is no sphere so important 
as that of wife, and mother, and sister, and daughter," 



CONVERSATION AS AN ART. 361 

and yet, incomprehensible as it may seem, this very sel- 
dom influences a woman to attain to any great degree 
of cultivation. She is quite as sure to get married with- 
out it, and she can keep house and take care of chil- 
dren without it. When they ask questions, she can 
say " hush," or " go to your father," and when present 
where there is intelligent conversation she can keep 
silent. Why should she take the trouble to learn what 
is not absolutely necessary to her getting comfortably 
through the world ? 

A celebrated writer and observer has remarked that 
" a woman to maintain her influence, must either look 
well or talk well." The good looks do not always de- 
pend on herself, but to talk well certainly does. There 
should be a much larger proportion of time "spent by 
school -girls in writing and talking — in learning to ex- 
press their own thoughts and those they acquire. 

If a woman's object is to gain admiration merely, 
there is no way she can be so sure of doing so, as by an 
intelligent and animated conversation. There is no way 
that brilliant talents and solid acquirements may be ex- 
hibited to more advantage, and most surely there is no 
way in which good seed may be sown in the heart to 
spring up and bear fruit a hundred and a thousand 
fold as by " a word in season," which is " like apples of 
gold in pictures of silver." 

Let every lady before going to a tea-party or sewing 
16 



362 THE MYRTLE WREATH 

society or social gathering, decide upon one or many 
interesting subjects which she will endeavor to intro- 
duce to those whom it may become her duty to enter- 
tain, and obtain all the information she can concerning 
them. If she select one about which there may be dif- 
ferences of opinion, let her revolve in her mind all the 
thousand and ten thousand pros and cons which may 
possibly spring up in the miods of others, and thus be- 
come faraiharwith the process of arguing, and learn to 
argue fairly. But the theme must not only be well 
conned; she must study quite as assiduously to talk 
about it in the right way, lest she should seem dictato- 
rial and pedantic — as if she were reciting a book. If 
every lady should go thus prepared what an amount of 
email talk and gossip it would banish from social circles. 
and how many in a little time would become intelligent 
and take pleasure in mental cultivation w^ho now make 
very little use of their acquirements. 

I have seen the experiment tried in schools, and very 
successfully, of devoting two or three hours each week 
to conversation cultivation, if I may coin an expression ; - 
and if no other benefit accrued, it impressed upon the 
minds of young ladies the importance of training their 
tongues to usefulness, and inspiring them with ambition 
to redeem their sex from the accusations now so univer- 
sal, of insipidity and frivolity. 

Somethinor of the same kind mio^ht be instituted in 



CONVERSATION AS AN ART. 363 

fiimilies. Mothers, and fathers too, might thus prepare 
their daughters to be "burning and shining hghts"in a 
sphere which is eminently theirs. 

Oh! how many times have I blushed with shame and 
indignation to hear intelligent men complain of the 
tediousness and soul-sickness they felt at having been 
obliged for so long a time to entertain ladies ! How 
many do I know who talk of their aversion to lowering 
themselves to the understandings and capacities of wo- 
men ! Men too, who would deny, if asked in so many 
words, that they thought woman needed any greater 
facilities for education or cultivation, or that she had 
not all the respect and honor which was due to, or that 
she had a right to demand. 

It is not true that she is sufficiently honored or edu- 
cated, or that her influence is sufficiently appreciated 
in her own quiet sphere, but it is also lamentably true 
that she has not cultivated rightly and made the best 
use of the talents which God has given her, nor made 
herself worthy of the respect and deference she claims. 

It is a hackneyed theme, but I know of no other vvay 
than to give 'Mine upon line and precept upon pre- 
cept," " here a little and there a little," in hope and 
earnest prayer that some of it will prove the " good 
seed" in " fruitful soil," and in due time yield a harvest 
which shall gladden the heart of the sower, and testify 
to the glory of God. 



IsSirjam? 



• • TTTHAT is fame to a heart yearning for affec- 
I V tion, and finding it not ? It is like the vic- 
tor's wreath to him who is parched with fever, and long- 
ing for the one cooling draught — the cup of cold 
water." 

This w^as the language of one w^ho had been crowned 
with the laurel wreath of fame, and on whom w^as lav- 
ished all the world has to bestow^ of honor, and j^et her 
heart hungered ! 

Is she happy ? is a question I have often asked, con- 

(304) 



IS SUE HAPPY ? 365 

cerning one who is walking in the same path, and 
breathing the same atmosphere of praise and adulation. 
I sometimes ask her if it is enough ? if this is sufficient 
for her woman's heart? and she answers "yes." But I 
never yet beUeved her ! AYhy those tears when there is 
no visible cause 7 Why does she start, as if guilty, when 
suddenly roused from a reverie 7 Why does she in- 
stantly assume that gay and careless air, lest we should 
know that she is ever sad ? 

I have seen her when she thought no eye was near, 
and no listening ear was by, with her face buried in her 
hands, and the hot tears falling thick and fast, while 
sobs seemed rending her bosom. If I should ask her 
the cause of her weeping she would answer " nothing," 
for woman must not speak the truth concerning her 
heart's yearnings. 

And there are those who envy her — who think she 
glories in the world's homage, and loves its hollow 
praise. Oh, what an answer would her heart give back, 
could it speak from its hidden depths ! Her name is on 
every tongue ; but to her it is only mockery. 

The unthinking world calls her cold and heartless — 
they contemptuously speak of her as one who prefers 
flattery to love — to whom the breath of fame is sweeter 
than the gushings of affection. She smiles, a gay, glad 
smile, when they tell her of the crown which is to deck 



300 THE MYRTLE WEEATH. 

her brow, and they think she will wear it proudly. 
They know not how her soul tramples it in the dust. 

" Why does she not renounce that which gives her no 
pleasure ?" 

A literary man in his advice to another, concerning 
the care of his health, says : " However happy he may 
be in the domestic circle, he must have something else 
to feed his temper and his ambition /" 

" And is it also true of woman ?" " No," I fearlessly 
answer, though there will be a multitude to contradict 
me. Woman needs nothing for her " temper" or her 
" ambition," if there is enough for her heart. God did 
not mak_e man and woman equal and alike in all things 
— what a stupid world it would have been if he had ! 
" There are diversities of gifts." What is lacking in 
one, is made up in the other. 

But it is true that woman must have something to 
feed bo± her temper and ambition unless her heart is 
full ! The excitement of a literary life, or of any other 
which affords constant occupation, is not sufficient for 
the happiness of which she is capable — for which "her 
soul hungers;" but it preserves her elasticity and her 
usefulness ; aye, and sometimes saves her from idiocy 
or from madness ! 

" Why has she never married ? This is woman's 
sphere, and the duties of the household are woman's 
duties," is the stereotyped answer to all this. Yes, but 



IS SHE HAPPY? 367 

they are duties which cannot be performed with any 
degree of acceptance when the heart is not engaged. 
Into other channels the heart may be forced, but into this 
never, as the thousand wretched homes into which 
woman has come with only her head and hands abun- 
dantly prove. 

" Is she happy ?" No, not in the sense in w^hich you 
put the question ; but she is too true a woman to con- 
sent to make others miserable, by taking upon her vows 
which she can never fulfil — by consenting to preside 
over a home, while her heart is still wandering — by 
attempting to diffuse light and life into the fireside circle, 
when her own bosom is without the love, the warmth- 
giving element, which alone can link in harmony the 
family bonds. 

Oh, how happy she would be, and how happy she 
could make others, surrounded by those in whom her 
affections delighted. How congenial to her would be 
those quiet duties and gentle offices which bless a home; 
" but there is a God in heaven who says, thou mayest 
like to do this, but thou must do that." 

When woman reigns in any other empire than home, 
it is from a stern necessity, which converts her into 
a martyr. But it is to the restless, weary ones of earth, 
that we look for the mighty deeds which shake the 
world and reform society. One who has spent his life 
in wandering says, " nothing is ever accomplished in 



368 THE l\rYRTLE WREATH. 

the woi'Ll by llio br.ppy ;" 3'ot tliere are eome whose 
high sense of duty bids them relinquish the happiness 
they might enjoy, in order better to promote the good 
of others ; yet there are many more who are driven 
forth, else they would never go. 

Pew, very few, women launch voluntarily on the sea 
where pleasure or safety depends on the breath of 
popular favor. It is with the hope of finding anchorage 
for the tempest-tossed bark — some rock which will give 
temporary repose — but it is far from being the beloved 
port. And let those who are in the midst of green 
fields and flowery vales envy them not their perilous 
resting-place. 



gitentuus 0f a Su0,to-|lak 



Bright Snowflake! in wonder I gaze on thy form, 
So perfect in beauty, thou child of the storm , 
And the vesture so spotless which ever is thine, 
Reminds me of stars which more gloriously shine ; 
When gilded like them, with the sun's ruddy beam, 
As brilliant thy glow and as radiant thy gleam. 

But where art thou wandering, bright beautiful one, 

And why art thou resting here pensive and lone ? 

Thou couldst not have thought to come strolling this way 

To hear from a damsel some flattering lay ; 
16* (369) 



370 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

Important dispatches mayhap thou dost bear, 
Intended to gladden a lone maiden's ear ? 
Commissioned art thou like the carrier dove ? 
Then welcome to me is thy message of love, 
Whate'er be thy mystery, please to unfold, 
I promise the secret shall never be told. 

" Nay, kind-hearted maiden," then said the Snowflake, 

" I came not so cruelly false hopes to awake ; 

For no special mission hath called me to flee 

From my home in the heavens, to linger with thee ; 

I came not to rouse thee from reverie deep. 

Nor disturb the gay visions of morn's dreamy sleep, 

And no gift of love nor of friendship so sweet 

Have I brought thee, a smile of approval to meet, 

Having long been a rover in regions of space, 

I'm seeking just now for a tarrying place. 

To rest me awhile, then away I must fly 

A wanderer free in the bright azure sky." 

" I proffer thee shelter and gladly would learn. 
If thou wilt relate it to me in return. 
Companion of ocean, of earth and of air, 
Whate'er thou hast seen in thy roamings afar." 



THE SNOW-FLAKE. 371 

Then answered the Flake, '' I'm not always of snow, 

But various mutations I oft undergo, — 

Sometimes I appear as a light drop of rain, 

Or with mist of the morning encircle the plain. 

And borne in a cloud through the blue atmosphere. 

Foreboding a tempest, I oft times appear. 

With a gale from the north for my Charioteer, 

And often at eve in the moon's gentle beam, 

A glittering pearl in her radiant gleam, 

But ever most lonely when sprinkling with dew, 

The soft blushing rose bud just opening to view, 

And ever unwelcome when clattering down, 

On the leaves and the blossoms a merry hail stone. 

But when in the stream on the sunny hill side, 

In the deep ocean's spray or the billowy tide, — 

In a thousand bright forms, though changing my name. 

In all my identity still is the same ! 

A rover so fickle so free and so fleet. 

How wondrous the varied adventures I meet. 

I first knew a home in those primitive bowers 

l>y innocence wreathed, and I danced in the flowers. 

That frost never blighted, that knew no decay. 

The hues of whose petals ne'er faded away ; 

"Where the songs of the warblers ne'er hushed on my ear 

For the cold Autumn winds, nor the ^Yinter so drear, 



372 THE MYRTLE WREATH 

Where hope never wavered and peace never fled, 

Nor doubt over Eden its bitterness shed. 

But a murmur is tempted within me to rise, 

As back to those moments fond memory flies ; 

I heard the destroyer his flatteries speak — 

Saw the paleness that spread o'er the loveHest cheek, 

And learned that our joy like mankind's had been riven, 

And we too must roam out of Paradise driven, — 

That whether on earth or the wide spreading sea, 

Must be doffing our robes as the weather might be ! 

Till then I had been by the soft breezes fanned. 

And knew not till banished that beautiful land. 

Of the hurricane wild, of the deluge or flood. 

Of murderous deed, or of carnage or blood. 

I floated awhile on Mount Ararat's height; 

To veil from old Noah the welcoming site, — 

When the waters subsided, the valleys were dry, 

And the bright bow of promise w^as set in the sky, 

With the glittering hosts which were marshalled that day 

I appeared, clad in beauteous, in glorious array. 

To rival in splendor the sun in his gold, 

And the stars that at night through the firmament rolled. 

From Babel's proud summit I gazed o'er the earth, 
When a thousand strange tongues to contusion gave 



THE SNOW-FLAKE. 373 

Fainting Ilagar I saw in the wilderness stop, 

And flew to her fount to contribute a drop. 

My honor it was to direct on its way 

The Israelite host, all the wearisome day — 

Through ethereal regions ascending on high, 

With my vapory cloak to eoshroud Sinai, 

And in Jordan's loved stream with a numerous band. 

To water the shores of the long promised land. 

In Solomon's temple where often I strayed, 

I heard lute and harp, and the psaltery played, 

And the anthem's deep peal through its arches resound, 

AVhile the loud Hallelujah was echoed around, 

And I left not the land of my home and my birth, 

A pilgrim to roam o'er the desolate Earth, 

Till deep lamentation through Judah had spread, 

And the song of her tnumph forever had fled — 

Till sorrow's dark cloud to Jerusalem clung. 

And the minstrel his harp on the willow had hung. 

I rolled in the waves of Genesaret's sea, 

And crested the ripples of deep Galhlee ; 

I have been with the Saviour on Olivet's height. 

Till his locks were all wet with the dews of the night ; 

AYith him have retired to Gethsemane's bowers — 

Heard his Spirit's deep groanings in solitude's hours. 

Saw the agony borne for a suffering world, 

"When the traitor came forth, with lip sneeringly curled 



374 TH£ MYRTLE WREATH. 

And a cheek that was blanched with the snnile of deceit 
And the kiss of betrayal, his Master to greet. 
I passed by the hall of old Eome's haughty lord, 
Who innocent thousands could slay at his word, 
Clad in vesture of purple, of silver and gold, 
That covered a heart to base perjury sold, — 
By deep raging passion so heated his brain, 
I entered not there for I knew it were vain. 

In the caravan throng o'er Arabian sands, 

I travelled with hordes of her wandering bands. 

As borne by the camel who willingly strode. 

Through the untrodden paths wdth his ponderous load, 

Then Egypt, whose glory hath faded away. 

Like mist of the morn in the sun's golden ray,— 

Her story famed ruins and mouldering tombs, 

And recesses deeper of pyramid w^ombs. 

Attracted me there, with the silvery haze, 

To shadow their grandeur from scrutiny's gaze. 

The smihng Oasis I visited too, 

To enliven a spot for the wayworn to view, — 

In the crystalline fountain to gold sands below, 

A mirror I granted their beauty to show. 

Then borne far away on the spicy wdnged b"eeze, 

I sought the deep caverns of India's seas, 



THE SNOW-FLAKE. 375 

To learn why I'm ever compared to the shell 
Where an insect so puny hath fashioned its cell. 
And proud I have been to be called like the pearl 
That I found in its home where the dark eddies curl. 



Long I lingered and dallied in Orient bowers, 

In the loveliest shades, with the fairest of flowers, 

Where the cocoa tree waves and the cinnamon blooms, 

And the orange exhales all its richest perfumes. 

On the plains where Bananas so fragrantly rise. 

And the feathery palm spreads its leaves to the skies, 

And the tropical bird with its many-hued wings, 

In the echoing forest its roundelay sings; 

But a land though it be where the soft zephyrs blow 

T'is limited still by the regions of snow : 

When loitering one day near the Boodh's sacred fount 

I was wafted afar to proud Himmalah's mount. 

Yet but for a moment I rested me there, 

I scarcely could breathe, 'twas so high in the air; 

To ill-fated Poland away then I flew, 

To see her bow down to her conquerors anew ; 

To see the proud Eussian his dark banner wave 

Over Hungary too, o'er a people more brave, 

Than stern autocrat were e'er given to thee, 

And a people that soon from their yoke will be free. 



376 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

I darted from thence to Alps' towering crest, 

And added new lustre to Jura's grey vest, 

To the Switzer I granted in the hour of need 

The ambient mist for his flowery mead, 

In his ivy clad fanes e'er delighting to dance, 

Then I tied to the vine covered valley of France. 

Her gay festive garlands I studded with gems, 

jMore brilliant than shone in her wrought diadems, 

For art cannot fashion a diamond so pure. 

As the clear shining drop from the deep fountain ewer. 

Away once again ! and to Scotia's fair scenes, 

How dear are to me all her woody ravines — 

Her valleys, her moors, and her heath covered hills, 

Her wild pouring streams and her murmuring rills; 

I loved the free air of her mountains to breathe — 

To dance on the lawns of the valley beneath — 

To find a lone haunt in the dark forest glade. 

In the coppice wood green or the light beachen shade — 

In the wild rushing torrent to sparkle and foam. 

Or find in Lochlomohd's bright bosom a home. 

In the land of sweet Erin I lingered awhile 
To survey the rich vales of that bonny green isle, 
Then sped to Old England and flew to the tower, 
That ages have hallowed with legend and lore — 



THE SNOW-FLAKE. 377 

O'er the woodlands and dells which the warrior hath 

famed, 
Or the lay of the minstrel more sweetly hath named, 
Through the valleys and wildwoods familiar and dear, 
Through the tales of my sisters who once had been here, 
On the storied Avon I'm proud to have been, 
To have j^layed in her dimples so smihng and sheen ; 
On her borders I aided the daisy to bloom, 
And bade the sweet Jessamine shed its perfume. 

In the wave and the white crested ripple I rolled, 
And the primrose I kissed on its chalice of gold, 
The voice of rich music I heard in those hours , 
From the bard who once sung in those fairy wreathed 

bowers, 
And the brow of the minstrel whose lays never die, 
And the soul of the poet — that gleam of the eye, 
I have seen, as he bent o'er the crystal expanse. 
To watch in the moonbeams the water drops' dance. 
And the blythe laughing spirit of whom he would dream. 
Was w^ooed by the Avon's soft murmuring stream. 
And love was the theme, when in youth's sunny prime. 
This poet of nature first whispered in rhyme. 

But from these cherished scenes I must hasten away, 
With these fond recollections no longer delay 



378 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

For thee I may weary protracting so long, 

This sketch of my wanderings in unlettered song — 

I might lead thee to Lapland, where moss covered 

dome. 
Gives master and reindeer a mutual home — 
Through lone Eussian wilds, and Siberian snows. 
Where rages the storm, and the fierce tempest blows ; 
To the far polar sea where a stern monarch reigns, 
With his thick hoary locks which he ever retains, 
But though he may seem so unwilling to yield, 
To the hardy explorer his broad icy field, 
He has only to find him in spring's smiling mood, 
Or when summer's untying his winter drawn hood, 
To assume unmolested the conqueror's power, 
And sail on his way to the Indian shore. 

Oh how many a tale in thy curious ear. 
Could I whisper to strike thee with terror and fear ; 
What tidings could bring from the deep ocean's bed, 
And the earth's rocking centre from which it is fed, 
Kevealing what theorists never divine. 
And confirming what savans can only opine, 
For its windings and channels I roamed ever free, 
And its deepest recesses were fathomed by me, 
O'er its thousand green islets in regions unknown, 
I was by the breeze and the hurricane blown, 
Till alighting at length on a proud vessel's mast, 



THE SNOW-FLAKE. 379 

As it gallantly sailed o'er the watery waste, 

On the shores of Columbia by chance I was thrown, 

And no land I've yet traversed, can rival your own ! 

No moss covered turrets are towering here, 

Which in tales of past centuries often appear, — 

No castles in ruins, no old feudal halls, 

No palaces Tich with their tapestried walls, 

But nature has strewn with munificent hand, 

Profusely her charms o'er this beautiful land I 

The forest how grand in her livery drest ! 

The mountain how stern with its snowy wreathed crest! 

How bright is the streamlet that wakes in the dell, 

Her deep rolling rivers how proudly they swell ! 

Tor ever around her the wild ocean roars, 

And breaks into billows along her green shores. 

But its scenery hath changed, since I first wandered o'er 

Its mountains and valleys, and I Hsten no more, 

To the wild thrilling song of a people who then, 

Roamed as monarchs and freemen through wild wood 

and glen ; 
They have fled from the Mohawk and Delaware's 

shore, 
In whose dells the shrill war-whoop is echoed no more. 
Their spirits are crushed — they are wasting away — 
By the breath of the white man they're doomed to 



380 THE MYRTLE WREATH. 

But away 1 the wide world I am bidden to roam, 

And must linger no longer with thee in thy home ; 

The sun has arisen, and bids me depart, 

Por my form he will change with his magical dart ! 

Ah, would there were hope of our meeting again, 

If not on the earth, in a fairer domain ; 

But tempest nor storm, in that world you will share. 

And I know not that even the dew-drop is there ! 

Of all the frail creatures who fell by his sin, 

'Tis man who alone can that Paradise win, — 

To the humble believer the promise is given, 

Of a glorious crown with the ransomed in Heaven, 

May it rest on thy brow and thy form be arrayed, 

In those " white shining robes" for the '' suffering" made, 

And a bright golden harp be attuned by thy hand 

To join the sweet songs of the glorified band ! 



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